


Quell

by NonchalantxFish



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 75th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Capitol Citizens, Depressing POV, District 12, Focusing on OC's, Gen, I don't know why I wrote this, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Language, Nihilism, Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, POV Third Person, The Capitol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonchalantxFish/pseuds/NonchalantxFish
Summary: Or, that one where the Capitol went with their pre-planned 75th Hunger Games Quarter Quell. [Full summary inside.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: AU. Districts 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, and 9 are not inspired by Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark’s defiance during the 74th Hunger Games. There is too little unrest, too few rebels for the Second Rebellion to be a threat to the Capitol. Yet. Then Quarter Quell is announced. If Katniss Everdeen was fire, Adrian Valencia was smoke.
> 
> Re-posted from fanfiction.net. I don't own The Hunger Games or its characters. Sporadic updates, because I'm still working on Rose Petal Red.
> 
> Enjoy!

The projecting screen is in the square, bright and loud and demanding Panem’s mandatory attention, and everyone stands still to watch it. Peeta Mellark has just proposed to Katniss Everdeen. They are the picture of blissfully ignorant Victors, of lovestruck teenagers, and it’s made all the sweeter by the fact that both of them were the underdogs of the 74th. Who would’ve thought? District 12 now had _three_ Victors: the drunk, the Girl on Fire, and the baker’s boy who loved her.

Everyone stands still to watch it. They don’t notice the tiny figure darting in between them, curling around their unmoving figures quietly, nimble fingers reaching into pockets and purses (of the more well-off citizens of District 12, of course). The little shadow masks her movements with the shifting of others’ figures, approaching calmly and confidently though her hands are sharp and quick.

She’s tiny, and if she weren’t wearing nice, stolen clothing with a nice, stolen hood over her dark hair, the victims of her pickpocketing spree would be watching her more closely. With her olive skin, dark hair, and bruised arms and face, no one would be able to say Adrian Valencia is anything but Seam.

One of the children of the community home — and she has been for many years — but Seam nonetheless. Funny, the little thief thinks, that even in the most impoverished of Districts, people still find things to discriminate others for. 

Adrian Valencia ducks into an alcove between two shops, hidden in the dark. There’s plenty of stolen currency, more than she usually can get from one of these television gatherings; she can afford to shave off a few coins. Which she does, peeling off muddy boots and slipping a few coins into a tear between the cloth and the leather heel. She’ll use the money to buy something to eat, or maybe medicine, when the Matron gets rough with her.

The community house Matron gets rough with everyone.

(There are bruises peppered all over her arms and legs and back, and there is a large one that takes up most of the left right of her face.)

After the District 12 Victor spectacle is over, Adrian Valencia walks in the shadows all the way to a small, nearly hidden apothecary. It’s on the verge of being Seam, dusty and dark and cramped, but the Everdeens — the woman and her younger daughter, the one who does not twirl on screen and giggle, pretending to be a carefree teenager that she is not — have moved to the Victor’s Village, so Herriot’s is all the little shadow-thief can afford.

She is only seen once on her way, and that’s because she spots loose change and darts forward to grab it. It is darker already, the sun is set and its light is making the sky a dreary-blue and darkening purple. A doorway splashes bright yellow light on her, and the respectable shop owner notices her at once, crouched with wide eyes before his doorsteps like a beggar or a scavenger.

“HEY! OUT! GET OUT!”

Something is thrown at her, and she dodges it with practiced ease. He stomps forward; she scowls, tempted to bare her teeth at him or to hiss angrily. If she had fur, she’d bristle, but Adrian Valencia is not a cat; she is a tiny scrap of a girl with bruises dotting her waxy skin and only a few coins to her name.

(She is so thin that she can feel the buttons of her back, the grooves between her ribs.)

Because Adrian is so thin, so unprepared, so _weak_ , the man catches her wrist. His grip is like iron, grating on bone, and it’s a combination of his strength and her malnourished frame that allows him to lift her off the ground by just her right hand. He shakes her, spittle landing all along her face, and then he throws her. She rolls once, twice, then scrambles up. (If she lies down for too long, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get up again.)

“Damn Seam brats! Fucking thieves, all of you! Don’t let me catch you here again, brat!”

Adrian Valencia snarls at him, and the door is slammed shut. She is left in the dark, a new set of bruises to her collection and a coin in her brittle fingers. Her heart burns with fury and humiliation. Don’t let me catch you here again, brat. Don’t come near me, monster. Get away, trash. Go back to the Seam. Go starve in an alley. Stop looking at us with your filthy eyes. Leave. Die.

No; she shakes her head.

The vaguest memory stirs. It’s soft and reverent and gentle, blurred. It smells like hope, a scent she knows so well and loves and hates at the same time. (If this memory weren’t here, she knows she would be dead.) It’s a prayer in her head, the energy that fuels her nimble, thieving fingers and wobbling, determined steps.

She decides to go on to Herriot’s. The sooner she can alleviate her bruises and sprains, the sooner she can return to the community house to give her meager coins to the Matron in exchange for more bedding. (It is supposed to be freely given, but so are a lot of things that are supposed to be in this world, and yet are not; Adrian learned this a long time ago.) More bedding means she won’t freeze tonight, because the other children decided that there were too many in their room and moved all her things to the outhouse, which is fine with her; it means they will forget her more easily, and she won’t have to bite ears and fingers off anymore. Adrian Valencia is very, very tired of having to claw and scratch and bite in order to protect her precious things.

Athea Herriot is a stout woman with flyaway grey hair tucked into a sooty, black cap; one of her eyes is burned shut, the other large and milky. She was probably once a beautiful woman, but the mines exploded years ago and Athea Herriot was caught in the fires. Her home is cramped with scavenged hoards of things, the ceiling strung up with herbs and dried plants that are no doubt from the Hob. She’s good friends with that other old one, the one they call Greasy Sae.

“Back again, brat?” asks the hunched woman, her door spilling very weak light onto the little thief’s figure.

Adrian Valencia nods, and holds out her handful of coins. Herriot looks them over carefully, then ushers her inside and slams the door. It smells like dust and something on the verge of rot inside the makeshift apothecary; Adrian knows not to wrinkle her nose, though. She has long trained herself to keep her emotions inside, and to keep her face blank. (That is how a community house child of the Seam survives, if they are not big and strong and pretty.)

“Matron catch you pickpocketing again, little thief?”

Athea Herriot is bumbling around, knocking containers over with too-wide, too-careless movements. Adrian watches her every twitch, her every stride. Even knowing that the woman is a healer doesn’t calm her down.

(They are all enemies, these people of District 12.)

When she finally finds whatever she’s looking for, she sits in front of Adrian Valencia and reaches forward. The little thief flinches, and Herriot has the courtesy to at least wait as she strips down to her thin shirt and patched trousers. Even Herriot flinches at the sight of her bony limbs, her bruised skin.

“Panem’s pants, girl! You’re a corpse.”

Adrian looks at the healer coolly. “We are all corpses here.”

Herriot twitches. “You speak awfully well for a little Seam bratling.”

“And you’re awfully talkative for someone who’s a known hermit.”

The healer clicks her tongue. “Cheeky little shit, aren’t you? Well, gimme your arms. This will hurt.”

It does. The paste is not Capitol-crafted, it’s a home remedy, and though it will make the bruises and cuts heal faster — tomorrow, they should be at least sealed enough for Adrian to go mucking through without risk of infection — the ointment _burns._ She is used to the pain and the sting, and doesn’t change expression. Herriot lathers on the grainy, bright green onto her arms entirely, and binds them with dirty bandages; Adrian will smell strange for a while, but she will be sleeping next to the community house’s mass waste house, so she really doesn’t think anyone will notice or care.

(Adrian notices, however, in her intent observations, that Herriot grumbles and groans, but takes her arm with surprising gentleness, brittle fingers like cotton kisses on her waxy skin.)

When she’s finished, Adrian stands to leave.

“Stop pissing off the Matron. I don’t want to see you here again, bratling.”

She is in the doorway, about to dive into the night. It is strange; Adrian could swear that there is a note of fondness or worry in Herriot’s voice. Herriot, who is old and worn and dirty, who is bitter and spiteful and lonely. Like so many of those in District 12, in the overwhelmingly huge Seam.

“I pay you.” Adrian says, instead of musing further.

(No one has worried for her before. Herriot, no doubt, is worried about wasting her time. Adrian won’t be tricked by softened eyes and gentle touches, not anymore. There are so few memories of those precious moments that she knows to trust. One tastes of hope, and she loves it so much that she isn’t sure she even understands her own mind anymore.)

“Yeah, well, you’re an annoying, cheeky, little waste of space.”

The little thief nods. “I know.”

She has been told this many times. Waste of space. Brat. No-good thief. Monster. No better than an animal. Get out of here. Damn community brat. Go away. You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing. You’re a little beast. You should go die. Go die.

Adrian deems to smile, and the expression on Herriot’s face makes her think it is not quite as welcoming as most smiles. Perhaps it’s the way she only lets her mouth slant a little, and her eyes are still as cold as District 12 nights.

“I know.” She repeats.

There is nothing for her in this place. She will go back to the community house, where her books are waiting in their hidden little alcove, and she will lose herself in them until she falls asleep, stinking of burning bruise-paste and excrement. She will wake and fight for her right to eat (with teeth and nails and snarls), be beaten by the Matron (for being filthy, for being stupid, for being _there_ ), go to school and daydream the day away. The afternoon will have her scavenging for food and money. She repeats.

She knows. She repeats.

That memory plays in her head, all light and soft and pretty. A gentle voice whispers in her ear:

_You deserve to live._

A prayer in the dark.

(What does she hope to live for?)

 

**…**

 

The screen is playing again. This time, though, it shows President Snow.

“On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.”

They chose who would die. She thinks it is rather poetic and cruel. (Though she does not like the Capitol for what it does, she finds that to be angry at them is even more difficult, more energy-consuming. So she can only watch President Snow as he inflicts his little cruelties on her people, her fellow 12’s who hate her for existing.)

( _You deserve to live_ , comes that whisper again.)

(Always again.)

“On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.”

District 12’s last Victor — the drunk, not the Fire Girl or the Lover Boy — won these games. Adrian Valencia wasn’t alive for them, but she has stolen into the Archives enough to have seen them play out. She has watched many of the Hunger Games this way. The Matron has always told her she has an obsession with death.

“And now we honor our third Quarter Quell,” says the gentle-faced, empty-eyed President of Panem. On screen, a yellow envelope is handed to him by a small child; small, in that the boy is younger. Adrian is still skinnier. That’s the norm with these Capitol projections. Snow begins again, “On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that the Capitol holds the Games to both chastise and show mercy to them, and for the rebels to recall the last lessons of the Quarter Quells, there will be twice as many tributes once again. Two who are chosen, and two 12-year-old children who are Reaped.”

There’s a gasp and a wave of murmuring throughout the crowd. Adrian’s thieving fingers still. Four tributes. Two who are chosen, two 12-year-olds who are Reaped. She looks up at President Snow and almost wants to congratulate him on the cruelty of such a Quell. She’s watched the 25th Hunger Games; the districts only chose older children, ones with a chance of winning, but at the same time, those that no one would miss terribly. Outcasts. The 50th Hunger Games was a bloodbath of disgusting proportions; it went on for weeks, and Tributes were killed in the most sickening of ways, all for the sake of sponsors and gifts and entertainment and desperate, desperate hope. This Quarter Quell was a combination with a twist; to show the districts their own cruel side, their own selfishness between classes, and also a bloodbath where even the youngest and most innocent children would fall.

Adrian Valencia can’t help but think of the last Games. There were two twelve-year-old children who come to mind; Primrose Everdeen and that girl Rue, of District 11. Just before President Snow’s benevolent, predatory smile is blinked away, she thinks there is a smugness in his features. Ah. This is a message to Katniss Everdeen, who almost broke the balance of the Capitol and its districts. This is a call for the blood of children, to show that her mercy and honor do not matter in the face of the Capitol.

Of course, Adrian Valencia may be reading too much into this. She observes very intensely.

So she walks away, thieving money and goods.

(Her name will be in the Reaping twenty-seven times. She is only a little bit away from being thirteen, and the Matron has ordered her to take out tesserae as much as she can.)

(Adrian Valencia, however, is not afraid of death. She is obsessed with it, they say.)

 

**…**

 

In school, she does badly. There are too many people watching her, too many feet trying to kick her, too many hands trying to tear her hair; there are too many things going on for her to observe and be wary of for her to care about arithmetic and language structure. She knows these things already; Adrian Valencia is a voracious reader, and as taught herself all the way up to final year curriculum in her downtime between beating and thieving.

The Reaping is tomorrow.

Everyone is scared, and while some shrink in on themselves and squeeze their eyes shut and cover their ears with their hands, others are like animals. In a corner, they snarl and fight; they are aggressive.

She’s not surprised when she sees that older boy, that second son of the Portshores — respectable merchants, they own a chain of stores and employ many others, the richest family in District 12 besides the mayor — cornering another boy in his age group, tormenting him. It is stress-relief, she knows this. They are all scared, they are all wondering if they will be having to slaughter twelve-year-old children in a few short weeks. But the boy, seventeen-year-old Amycus Selkirk, can’t know that because he is being poked and prodded like a skittish, cattle.

Adrian Valencia glances at the teacher. She’s seated by a window, overlooking the schoolyard where the seventeens are on lunch break. Mrs. Wellwood is lecturing about quadratic equations, which everyone is struggling with; but Adrian is not, so she turns her face back to the window, there Amycus Selkirk is clutching as a presumably sprained wrist and whimpering to himself.

The seventeens are all scattered around the yard, and if they aren’t laughing and joining in on this sad show of mob mentality, they are eyeing the Portshore boy with disgust. Some, with admiration. Portshore is rich, after all; and handsome, Adrian supposes. What would cruelty matter, if a woman is cared for and warm? (And everyone knows that Portshore Sr. has been bribing everyone he’s come into contact with not to vote for any of his children; though the eldest, Leohardt, is already twenty, he has four other, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked merchant children who are of Reaping Age.)

Adrian blinks. Where is Katniss Everdeen? She is seventeen, or so Adrian thought. She didn’t know Victors were allowed to skive off classes. Peeta Mellark is at school today.

_Ah,_ Adrian thinks, _so this Quarter Quell WAS designed to take the Girl on Fire down._

Not in so dramatic a way that anyone would be able to tell, but enough for those who are clever enough; those who saw her little acts of rebellion in her Games, who noticed how that near-suicide wasn’t a desperate act of love, but a challenge to the Capitol. Adrian Valencia saw that, and she knows she wasn’t the only one who did. Perhaps the only one of her age, but there are dissidents everywhere.

It is too bad Katniss Everdeen is not charismatic enough to pull the districts to her side; Adrian Valencia thinks everything would be very different if the flames of the rebellion were just a bit brighter.

(But Katniss Everdeen, for all she is special, killed Careers without mercy, and was very close to killing her own district partner. The richer districts and those districts that prize loyalty and intelligence, they are not swayed by her sloppy, desperate honor.)

But Adrian Valencia is twelve, nearly thirteen. Preteens and barely-teens don’t think about things like rebellion.

“Isn’t that Livius Portshore?” comes a whisper.

She is not the only one watching the window, it seems.

“He’s an awful person.”

“Poor Selkirk.”

“Do you think you’ll get Reaped?”

“I’m thirteen already, I’m not in the running.”

“You’re lucky.”

Adrian Valencia dozes off to the sounds of whispering children and shouting and whimpering below. If only the Games were just a few weeks later, she would be out of the running. She doesn’t really want to go into the Games, after all. There are books to read, vids to watch, things to steal.

(She has always wanted to see what it would be like if she weren’t in the community house anymore. She thinks it might be nice.)

When her eyes flutter open, school is just about over. She scribbles half of the right answers into the homework, wondering why District 12 even bothers with education for coal miners, and tucks the leaves of paper into her bag, which is hidden behind the curtains of the windows. If she takes her work to the community home, someone will destroy it. Someone will always destroy her things, so Adrian Valencia learns to defend them, learns to hide them.

As she leaves the building, the yard is empty of the seventeens, except for two.

Amycus Selkirk is sitting near the bushes, tear tracks down his cheeks and a hitch in his breathing, hiccuping from sobbing. He is not as bruised as Adrian is on a daily basis, and the thought of this merchant’s boy crying over a bit of bullying makes her irritated. He is not as small as she is, he is not as voiceless. She doesn’t understand, so she approaches quietly. She only wants to watch, to listen. Livius Portshore is speaking quietly to the crying boy.

Then Livius Portshore turns to leave, and shoves her out of the way as he does. He is not large, but his frame dwarfs her own in comparison; there is a world of difference between his toned body and her malnourished one.

“Out of the way, creepy-eyed brat. I don’t have time for you today.”

She looks at him coolly. Livius is not above tormenting twelves. She knows this firsthand. She suddenly wants to hurt him, remembering the bruises his hands have caused, remembering the humiliation his arrogant words leave.

“You will never be as great as your brother, Livius Portshore.”

The boy’s eyes flash, and he slaps her hard enough for her to fall. She is too winded to properly observe and relish the hurt in his eyes as he leaves. Then there is only Amycus Selkirk and Adrian Valencia in the schoolyard, and it is not the seventeen who stands first and approaches the other.

There is a tiny fragment of hope in Selkirk’s green eyes as he looks up at her.

“Why don’t you fight back?” is what Adrian Valencia asks the boy with a sprained wrist.

The hope dies.

“I’m not going to help you. You didn’t even try to help yourself.”

“Th-they’re so m-much bigger tha-than me. A-And Livius i-is rich and powerful… I’m not g-going to sink t-to his level. I-I’m better than that. I-I don’t have t-to be vi-violent to win.” says Amycus Selkirk.

Adrian Valencia stares at him blankly. It is familiar. Too familiar. Like how little girls go around wearing braids and boots, trying to emulate the Girl on Fire. She sees it on the screens all the time, those Capitolites with their braids and expensive bread, like they think they can be Victors if they pretend to know their roots.

“It’s not enough to be the underdog,” she says, “This isn’t television. Our Victors are alive because they fought back, in their own ways. There is no inspiration behind desperation. There is no strength behind indecisiveness.”

His eyes flash with something that is almost shame. She nods to herself; it is right that he receives this chastisement from someone. Even if it is only Adrian echoing the sentiments of others, of her books, it is better than he knows.

(The weak are not celebrated. Those who are weak and _become_ strong are.)

“Wh-what do I do?” whispers Selkirk.

She blinks at him. “That is not for me to decide.”

Then she turns, rather hoping that Portshore — the second son, of course — will face a stronger-spined boy in the schoolyard; after the Reaping, that is. Not that Adrian Valencia really cares all that much, as none of it truly affects her, but she derives entertainment from these things. Everyone does; that’s why the Hunger Games are so popular, no?

The Matron beats her when she returns to the community home.

She leaves and returns smelling of gritty, green bruise-paste.

The sun sets and the moon rises.

Adrian Valencia reads a book as her body throbs in pain; it’s a book about medicine, one that Herriot gave her before she returned. She thinks that Herriot is annoyed at her constant presence. A shame that the Everdeens live too far now, in the Victor’s Village, because Primrose Everdeen was a kind soul that charged her very cheaply.

She’s settled under the window, hidden in the bushes. The outhouse’s smell seeps into the paper pages of her books, she thinks, so she doesn’t prefer it anymore. She listens to the other orphans talk to each other; Adrian can’t sleep without sound, it’s too unnatural.

“I don’t want to go tomorrow.”

“If you don’t go, they’ll know. They’ll kill you.”

“What if I break my leg?”

“If you’re Reaped, you’ll be the first to die.”

“That crippled boy from 10 was fine for a long time, though.”

“There are forty-eight Tributes this time. Twenty-four of them will be older, stronger. You’ll die. A twelve-year-old has never won the games.”

“Stop scaring her!”

“What about Finnick Odair?”

“He was fourteen.”

“How do you know that?”

“That creepy girl told me when I asked. You know her, right? Really, really small. She’s thirteen, though, I think, so she won’t be Reaped. The bookish one outside.”

“The one who bites ears off? She’s scary.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t want to go to the Games.”

“No one does.”

“Ariadne, right?”

“Adrian.”

“Right.”

“But if we go to the Games, we can be like Katniss.”

“And Peeta.”

“They’re going to get married after the Games are over.”

“They’ll be happy.”

Adrian Valencia sighs. They don’t talk about very interesting things; she has better fun listening to adults in the crowd, listening to teenagers. But their whispers lull her to sleep with her book in her hands, a book full of fairytales, despite the shivering of her shoulders.Tomorrow is Reaping Day, where the votes for two children will be announced, and two twelve-year-olds will be chosen by Effie Trinket’s powdery fingers out of looming glass bowls. Twenty-seven of those slips will be hers, and in a pool of only twelve-year-olds, Adrian Valencia has very bad odds.

She was going to be thirteen in a week.

 

**…**

 

They are lined up in the front, which is unusual. Usually the older ones are up front, the younger in the back. It is reverse this time.

She doesn’t like the dress she wears. It’s poorly-made and poorly-fitted, a limp grey thing hanging off a skin-and-bones frame held together with dry, dehydrated skin. The Matron combed her hair thoroughly, and she’d seen the comb afterwards, all clogged with black, tangly knots. The only mercy is that they let her keep her hair down, to hide her too-bright eyes in her too-sunken face; she is the only one, standing in a sea of girls with braids down their backs.

(When she glances at Katniss Everdeen, standing on the podium with a grim face, she wonders how the girl feels; she is an idol, a figurehead, and it seems she doesn’t know how she got there. This is probably why she did not manage to started the slow-burning rebellion, not yet.)

Adrian Valencia watches as Effie Trinket, with her permed blonde wig and her dress made of monarch butterflies, walks up on stage. She is smiling and happy, though the grin is a bit subdued with how stone-faced District 12 is. It doesn’t matter, Adrian believes; let the Capitolite have her fun. She does not know how very privileged she is, a butterfly beating its wings in coal dust. Harmless and unaware of the hurricanes she causes, the lives she displaces.

It’s hot and miserable. It’s always miserable in this district, though.

Effie Trinket taps the microphone, the light touches of her fingers echoing. She clears her throat.

“Well, well! Happy Hunger Games, everyone! And aren’t we so lucky, Happy Quarter Quell as well!”

She is bubbly, Adrian observes. Much more so than before. (Pride, she thinks, pride in her district which walked away with not one but _two_ Victors last year. She is hoping for a successful streak.)

“The Capitol would like us to call the names of the voted Tributes before the Reaping,” says the woman cheerfully, her accent strong and booming. (She is an outsider, Adrian Valencia thinks to herself, and there is nothing — not even her misplaced, shallow pride in District 12 — that will paint her otherwise, this Effie Trinket woman, this Capitolite.) “So, if you please. Ladies first!”

Mayor Oversee hands two envelopes to Effie Trinket. They are yellow, just like the envelope the Quarter Quell speciality came from. It is probably the same in all the other districts.

“For the girls: Juniper Combe!”

Everyone turns to the fourteens. Juniper Combe is a Seam child, olive-skinned and dark-haired and exhausted-looking. She is tall and wide for her age, but not fat; just big. There is a primal terror in her eyes, a betrayed panic, and she looks around, begging for someone to save her.

“Come on up, Juniper Combe! Your district has given you the honor of participating in a Quarter Quell!”

(Your district has given you up to a violent, terrifying, televised death.)

(There is no Katniss Everdeen to volunteer for you.)

The girl, her legs trembling like a newborn foal, walks forward. She stumbles once, and is helped up by a quiet sixteen with a grim face and a steady hand. Then she’s on the stage, and Effie Trinket announces and presents her again. There is light, pattering applause when it is called for. No one really wants to applaud; this is the face of the girl they — the adults, as it is only them who were required to vote, though the younger were allowed to if they so wished it — sentenced to die so that the other girls could be saved.

There is relief in the rest of the girls, in everyone who is over twelve-years-old.

Juniper Combe stands off to one side as Effie Trinket opens the next envelope.

“For the boys: Livius Portshore!”

A beat of silence. Faces are slackened with shock. Disbelief. Incredulity. And on some faces, unmistakable glee. (One of those faces is Amycus Selkirk, the boy with the sprained wrist.)

“NOOOO!”

“IMPOSSIBLE!”

“NO, NO, NO- DAD, LEO, HELP ME-!”

“LET GO OF MY SON! THERE’S BEEN A MISTAKE!”

“BACK AWAY! BACK AWAY OR WE FIRE!”

Chaos.

Livius Portshore tries to fight the Peacekeepers, tries to run, right until they threaten to fire on his family. Then he falls limp and sobs, just as his father — a portly man in his fifties, a wealthy chain-store-owner — collapses to his knees with tears streaming down his fattened, smooth face. His wife, Mrs. Portshore, is barely holding it together. The boy’s siblings in the Reaping crowd look devastated and relieved at the same time. But there is only one face Adrian Valencia watches. Leohardt Portshore looks like the world has ended.

She knows him. He never has such expressions on his face. He is a doctor, a proper doctor, not an herbalist or apothecarian. He treats people both physically and mentally, healing their hurts with his smile. It is strange to see such an expression; Livius Portshore was hated enough for people to betray his father and send him to die. Why would such a scumbag’s death bother such a good person?

She blinks slowly as the Reaping begins. Then she sighs.

“Samhain Vinpointe!”

_You deserve to live._

“Savera Kithbain!”

Adrian Valencia steps forward as the applause dies. She is not so dramatic as Katniss Everdeen, she doesn’t think. No, Katniss had blocked her sister from the stage with her body and screamed out her desperation and love. That was why Katniss Everdeen is the Girl on Fire. Adrian is not so hot-headed.

She approaches the stage slowly and quietly, and stops just before Effie Trinket. There are eyes all over her, making her rather uncomfortable. But she doesn’t really care, because her voice is calm and steady and that soothing alto that no one ever seems to hear from the little thief, the little Seam rat who has been told to die too many times to count.

“I would like to volunteer as Tribute,” says Adrian Valencia.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figure I should start moving my fanfiction.net things from there to ao3. So. Here's this, which I wrote because I was bored and wanted to get back into writing.

She does not have any family, and the Matron and other community home children will not see her off at the Justice Building. So Adrian sits on the train, waiting for Juniper Combe, Samhain Vinpointe, and Livius Portshore to arrive. She is sitting across the three Victors of District 12, with the drunk — Haymitch Abernathy — across her, looking uncharacteristically grim-faced despite the drink in his hands. Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen are on either side of him, which cements her theory that their love story was constructed for the sake of publicity; they would be beside each other, otherwise.

Adrian blinks at them quietly, observing them as she does everything.

Katniss Everdeen is not gorgeously pretty, not like many of the District 1 Tributes are, but there is a comforting prettiness about her that makes you look at her twice, then thrice, then again and again. Her brown hair is in that famous braid, her grey eyes conflicted and tormented, darting around at Adrian’s body: the bruise on her face, the bandages on her arms, the boniness of her limbs.

Peeta Mellark is thick-framed and strong and classically handsome, but his face is kind and gentle, blonde hair styled softly and that same soft theme permeating his entire presentation. He gives Adrian a weak smile, but seems to also categorize her every wound and blemish, trying to figure her out, trying to decipher why a starving Seam girl would volunteer to die. 

“So. Why?” asks Haymitch Abernathy bluntly.

The two teenage Victors glare and glance at him, Peeta the former and Katniss the latter.

Adrian smiles a little. She does not trust any of them.

(She knows, from watching the 74th, that Haymitch Abernathy chose to focus all his efforts on Katniss Everdeen, the one who would survive. She will expect abandonment early on, no matter the soft hearts of the teenagers — they are not as clever as Abernathy, they are not as jaded. He will convince them, when they are all in the arena trying to kill each other, that Adrian Valencia must be left to die. She chose to, didn’t she?)

(This is what they want to think. Adrian doesn’t care.)

“Is it so hard to imagine that I simply wish to compete?” she asks.

Everdeen and Mellark blink in surprise as her level voice, her confident manner, her intelligently-toned words. Abernathy is not so surprised.

“A twelve has never won the Games.”

Adrian Valencia smiles. “I do not want to win.”

He raises a brow. “Why did you enter, then?”

The door slides open and the three other Tributes enter. Effie Trinket is ushering them in, twittering about something or other. The noise is background as Adrian leans forward, baring her teeth — which she has used as weapons many, many times — in a vicious facsimile of a smile. 

“I want to kill.”

The entire cabin is silenced. The three other Tributes look at her in horror.

Abernathy throws back his head and laughs, long and hard. The attention is focused on him, but he doesn’t care. He downs his drink in a single swig and tosses the glass behind him, not looking back when a surprised Samhain Vinpointe accidentally catches the crystal and fumbles with it, ultimately dropping it and letting it shatter. No, Abernathy is staring at Adrian in the eye, assessing her in a way that reminds Adrian of how she observes others.

(Like a predator, licking its lips. Sizing others up, categorizing weaknesses and strengths and advantages and disadvantages.)

“You just might have a shot.” Haymitch Abernathy says, grinning with dead eyes.

(Strange. She has always thought that people abandon the more vicious creatures, if only to preserve themselves. Adrian should have known better, she supposed — the Hunger Games was created _for_ these monsters inside Panem.)

 

**…**

 

Dinner is luxurious, and Adrian is sure not to eat too much. She will make herself sick if she ingests rich foods en masse right after years and years of starvation. The other three — no, make that two — Tributes don’t eat much, either, though; everyone but Juniper Combe looks on the verge of vomiting. Now that Adrian thinks of it, the only ones who ate normally were Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy; everyone else seemed sickened.

They don’t know how to balance their morality with the knowledge that most of them will be dead in a few weeks. Adrian has bypassed that entire emotional and mental conundrum by throwing away her morality; it was so weak already, after all. Years and years of being treated like an animal will do that to a Seam brat, breaking off their ties to societal views on _justice_ and _empathy_ and whatever else as easily as bones.

_You deserve to live._

Wait. One remains unbroken in her, she supposes. Only one.

(It smells like hope and makes her dangerous.)

She watches the others eat. Juniper Combe is as Seam as she is, but obviously not as intelligent. She shovels food into her mouth, hunched over her plates like there isn’t and never will be enough. Like she’s back in 12, fighting to eat and sustain that skinny frame of hers. Adrian knows that she will be sick later, her stomach rejecting the promiscuity of the Capitol even as her mind hungers for it. The way Juniper’s brown eyes dart over the table makes Adrian think she’ll be gorging in her room, on stolen breadrolls and fruitcakes and all this colorful paraphernalia they’re consuming, or in Samhain Vinpointe’s case — her fellow 12-year-old — picking at. He is from town, some minor storeowner’s youngest child, a Reaped child. He has a semblance of manners and a fear in his gut that prevent him from copying Juniper Combe’s desperate gorging.

Her eyes flicker to Livius Portshore, however, and she almost wants to smirk. She does not like the boy, with his handsome smiles hiding his cruel eyes. He is seventeen and beautiful, alabaster skin and chestnut hair and soft grey eyes, so different from the harsh slate of Katniss Everdeen. Where Livius Portshore’s pretty face is drawn in unblinking horror, feeding himself listlessly, Katniss Everdeen eats slowly, her portions birdlike, and watches Adrian Valencia none-too-subtly.

She supposes most people would be afraid of a child who wants to kill.

(She deserves to live, and this is how she will live. There is no other way, after all.)

(Adrian Valencia learned long ago that it’s by trampling on others that you rise. The Capitol — and everyone else — simply need to know that it is by killing others that she will feel alive.)

What was the word? She searches her mind, perusing the thousands of books she’s read in between pickpocketing for her meals and fighting others away from those same scraps of bread.

Nihilism, she thinks. Adrian snorts a little, softly enough that no one who wasn’t paying attention would catch her. Which rules out Haymitch Abernathy and Katniss Everdeen, their eyes like hawks’, trained on her every little movement, trying to figure out how so little a child could utter such bloodthirsty words. (Peeta Mellark is trying to make soft conversation with the others, aided by the colorful Effie Trinket.)

They must think she’s a demented little nihilist.

(Good, they must muse to themselves. Innocent 12-year-olds are not all that interesting. One who has the heart of a rabid dog will pull the audience in. And, in Katniss Everdeen’s case, it will be a good distraction so that President Snow does not keep his empty-eyed gaze on her for her puttering flames.)

When dinner finishes, they retreat to their bedrooms. Most of them.

Adrian Valencia is tempted — sorely tempted — to simply sink into that Capitol-worthy bed and sigh and rest her weary body. Her stomach twinges uncomfortably with how unused to a full meal it is, and it is warm and comfortable in this small space. It would be easy, to simply pull herself from her spot in the corner and burrow under the crimson comforters, trimmed with silver. But she steels herself, as she always does, and leaves behind the warm-colored room to slip into the dark hallway again a half-hour after first shoving herself in between the metal wall and the little metal chair.

She presses her ears against four other doors: Livius Portshore’s, where he is snoring already. Juniper Combe’s, where her sobs are muffled and gasping. Samhain Vinpointe’s, which is silent except for periodic sniffles. Effie Trinket’s, the furthest from her’s and closest to the head of the train, which she is sure is occupied despite the silence.

The compartments of the Victors of 12 are empty, and that is why she stalks towards the dining/living cars again.

Adrian is practiced as she slips into the dark and stays there, ears listening. But rather than straining for information or rumors or the jingle of coins or the crunch of paper bills, she easily picks up on their voices.

“There’s something wrong with that girl,” mutters Peeta Mellark.

Haymitch Abernathy snorts. She can imagine that he’s drinking now. It’s hard to imagine that man sober, actually. “Better for us. Better for _her._ The kid they Reaped, she wasn’t ever gonna make it. This one? She’s got what it takes.”

“Like I did?” asks the Girl on Fire.

A grunt.

An exasperated sigh. “She’s just a kid! How can she-?”

“She’s going into the Games like a Career,” says Katniss Everdeen bluntly, “She asked us if the Capitol had the technology to get her to a healthy weight on time. She’s going in to win.”

“Not to win! To _kill_ , didn’t you hear her?”

“Calm down, Mellark. God’s sake. This is good. This’ll keep eyes off us. You. You two,” the drunk says, chuckling a little at the end. “You wanted Snow’s eyes off? You’ve got it. That little girl sleeping back there? She’s the mirror opposite of that little girl you saved, sweetheart. That’s what you need.”

“What? A killer?”

(Adrian Valencia will admit to smiling at this point.)

“Why do you think they love their Careers, huh? Capitol likes drama and death. You gave them the drama. Too much, actually, sweetheart. Now you need the death. Simple.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” sighs Peeta Mellark.

“Welcome to Victory.” snorts Abernathy.

A sigh.

“Who’s mentoring who?”

“Someone’s going to have to take two Tributes.”

“I will. I think Juniper and Samhain will be more comfortable with me.” Peeta says.

“Why not Portshore?”

A snort. “You call him by his last name and he’s your age. Figure it out, sweetheart.”

“He’s a prick.” She mutters.

A laugh. “You want the prick or our little volunteer?”

Katniss Everdeen hesitates. “The prick. You should take her. You have more experience mentoring.”

“Wait, wait, wait. We’re gonna concentrate on all of them… aren’t we?”

“Not how it works, kid,” Abernathy says casually, “We might have more support because you’re the Capitol’s star-crossed lovers, but this is Quarter Quell. We’ve got _four_ Tributes to provide for. Your names ain’t gonna cover that many kids. Especially since neither of you make regular Capitol appearances, not like, say, Finnick Odair or Johanna Mason.”

“Who are they?”

“Four and seven. Odair won when he was fourteen, the little prick. Mason played the vulnerable card all the way until she got her hands on a pair of axes, then she murdered everyone. Vicious bitch.”

Adrian nods in the dark. Odair and Mason are dangerous, beautiful, and a little unbalanced. She can tell, the way their eyes rove over the crowds and camera. Mason is a bit more outwardly psychotic, but Odair is the smiling murderer and it makes even _her_ skin crawl when she watches the news and sees him smile at certain, random Capitolites. She is sure that she is one of few who can read their body language like this, a mixture of her instinct, her having watched both their Games, and her desperate need to read body language in order to pickpocket right.

She settles, listening as Abernathy has to explain a bit more about the two Victors.

It’s funny, she thinks, that even after the Games, Victors still compete. Instead of ‘I have to live, I have to survive, I have to get back to my District, I have to live’, it becomes ‘I have to bring them back, I have to make sure they can survive, I have to go back to my District without empty hands, I have to keep them alive’. She wonders if that wound on Abernathy’s stomach — the one he’d gotten during his Games, the one he’d had to clamp his hands over so his intestines didn’t spill out — hurts more than the fact that he has not been able to bring back his District’s children for decades until Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.

“We’re off topic!” says Peeta Mellark suddenly, snapping even Adrian from her relaxed stupor, “The Tributes. The kids. Aren’t we… Aren’t we going to help them all? Give them all an equal chance?”

Everdeen sighs. “Peeta…”

He pleads on. “A chance, they all need a chance. They all have people to go back to.”

Abernathy chuckles darkly. “Not Adrian Valencia.”

She blinks in interest, straightening in her perch, sitting against the wall just outside of the open door.

“But-”

A crash, and a shatter. She’s willing to bet that Abernathy threw his alcohol-filled glass.

“This isn’t a fucking fairytale game, kid,” he snarls, “You think they’ll let a miraculous _four Tributes_ win this year? We’re not getting them all back. We’ve never gotten _one_ , until you two showed up.”

“I’m not an idiot, Haymitch!” Peeta almost-shouts, “I know not all of them will survi-”

“Then concentrate on the one who’s most likely to come home. One of them’s a spoiled rich boy whose daddy’s money couldn’t buy him a better personality. One of them’s a starving Seam brat who can’t move from the margins. One of them’s a kid that threw up all his three bites of dinner. And one of them… One of them’s a vicious little pickpocket that’s wants revenge on the world. Who do you think’s gonna keep themselves alive the longest?”

Everdeen interjects softly, “She’s only in it to kill.”

“Then as her mentor, it’ll be your job to drill in the fact that she better be in it to survive, too.”

“Me?”

Adrian Valencia nods to herself, and slips back into the bedroom cars. She only wanted to know who her mentor would be. If she were honest, she would’ve rather gotten Abernathy, but Everdeen’s a nice compromise. She doesn’t think she’ll take to a bow and arrows, of course, but the Girl on Fire, at least, is Seam through and through. And of course, Everdeen will likely be working in tandem with Abernathy; if only for her lack of experience.

They want to keep her alive. They want her to be the 75th Victor.

Something inside her burns at the thought. Another part of her laughs. Good, it says, that snarling corner of her heart. Good, let them keep her alive. Let them give her everything they have, let them teach her how to craft time for herself, let them. She needs to know how to survive.

That something that burns, though. It whispers. The others will die so you can live.

_You deserve to live._

She will fight for those words, that hand that brushes her hair gently. She will live the way she wants to live, and if she has to kill to do that, so be it.

_I don’t need to win,_ Adrian Valencia thinks as she finally allows herself into that bed, under that warm comforter (it’s like wrapping herself up in a cloud), _I don’t want to._

She doesn’t, really. Though she doesn’t particularly want to die, she’s accepted it.

Her eyes close.

She sleeps peacefully.

 

**…**

 

She dreams of hope.

There is a hand brushing her hair down, not intimately. But gently. Before then, she has never remembered someone gently petting her hair down, smoothing the thick, black tangle of curls. The other hand is between her teeth, oozing blood and spilling it down her face. Her sallow skin shines with it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” that soft voice whispers.

She is crying. It’s what makes the memory blurry.

“It’s okay. You deserve to live. It’s okay.”

No one has ever said that to her before.

When she gently loosens her locked jaw, she tastes the iron and salt more clearly. She’s used to biting but somehow, the taste is bitter now. The touch is still gentle, and she watches as that hand is wrapped up and immediately goes back to comforting her like the child she isn’t and the child she knows she could have been.

(The books say that children aren’t like her. Bloody, dirty, messy little wastes of space. Therefore, she isn’t a child, right?)

“You deserve to live. You hear me? It’s okay. You deserve to live.”

She whimpers, and hates her weakness. “No one’s said that to me before.”

“…Then you should say it to yourself. Don’t listen to them. Are you hungry? Here.”

It’s just a half-eaten sandwich. It probably saves her life. If she knew what ambrosia tasted like, it was probably that.

“They told me I should just die.” She whispers.

“That’s ridiculous. You deserve to live, remember? You deserve to live.”

“I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy. Watch.”

She does. She learns how to live. She’s kicked down more times that she remembers, but she gets back up. Keeps rubbing bruise paste into her skin. Keeps stealing little things from littler people to eat. Keeps baring her teeth at those who would knock her down. She goes to the Archives to watch how people live, how they survive in the Games. Then she moves onto movies. Then books. They teach her how to live, even as people tell her to die.

All except one, whose face she can barely remember for how the tears crowded her eyes.

(Hope smells like salt and iron and ambrosia.)

(It’s lovely, and she will kill to protect it.)

(It tastes like blood.)

 

**…**

 

The next morning, Adrian Valencia sits at the table to eat. She listens closely as the mentors explain to them all about how they will be divided. Juniper Combe and Samhain Vinpointe with Peeta Mellark. (Because they are soft, they are weak, and they need the comfort he can bring.) Livius Portshore with Haymitch Abernathy. (Because he is softer and weaker still, but he is arrogant and cruel and rude; his mentor is ruder, and has watched soft little boys die for years.) Adrian Valencia with Katniss Everdeen.

Because they are both female? asks Effie Trinket titteringly.

(Because Adrian Valencia is a rabid dog, and Katniss Everdeen has been hunting those since she first took up her bow and crawled unto District 12’s fences.)

Haymitch Abernathy laughs.

The drunk tilts his head towards Peeta Mellark. “Bit less feisty than you two were, last year.” He remarks.

Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen’s lips twitch.

“You haven’t punched anyone.” Mellark says accusingly.

“You haven’t knocked my booze outta my hands.” Abernathy replies.

“I guess no one’s going to mention that I stabbed your fingers, either,” Everdeen throws in.

The drunk grins. “You missed.”

“Um… Miss Everdeen?”

The woman herself startles at the sound of Samhain Vinpointe’s hesitant voice. Or maybe at the term of address. She looks at the boy — he is like a weed, but not as skeletal as Juniper Combe and Adrian Valencia are — and waits for him to speak, despite his reddening face.

“Why… Why did you st-stab Mr. Abernathy?”

“Call me Haymitch, kid.”

“Uh. Right. Him.”

Katniss Everdeen looks considering, then she answers, “We wanted him to teach us how to win the Games. He wouldn’t, at first.”

“You’re going to now. Aren’t you?”

That voice is testy and snarly and hoarse. Livius Portshore. The boy looks decidedly more haggard than usual, his ever-present smirk gone, chestnut hair tousled and messy. Adrian knows that if they were up any earlier, the teenager’s eyes would be red.

Abernathy snorts at the boy, who narrows his pretty, grey eyes.

“All of you, stand up. Apart.” He orders in lieu of answering.

They obey, leaving their breakfasts.

There is enough space between them all, lined up like soldiers, for the District 12 mentors to circle them. Or rather, for Haymitch Abernathy to circle them. The two newest Victors make a lazy oval around them all, trailing after their own mentor, and then stand to the side while Abernathy prods and pokes them. Adrian Valencia knows that he slows when he comes to her, his eyes sharpen in their scrutiny. There is an annoyance or anger there; she is probably too skinny and weak now.

(She promises herself to get better as soon as possible. They have the technology for it, she hopes. She has to be ready for the Games. She has to be ready to catch up with forty-seven other Tributes, many of which will be in much better shape than she is.)

(They will not be able to feel the buttons of their spines, the grooves between their ribs.)

(She must not, either.)

“Hm. Not entirely hopeless,” concludes Abernathy. Then he points at the girls. “You two need to shape up. The Capitol tech will help, but you won’t be at your best when the games start in a week. You’ll just have to make do.” Then to the boys. “You two are more fit. Merchant boy especially.”

“You’re all going to go to stylists,” says Peeta Mellark quietly, “They’ll fix your appearance up. Just go with it.”

“Haymitch, are they getting our old stylists?” asks Katniss Everdeen.

He shrugs. “The stylists do as they please. So, probably. Usually stick to one gender if they can. Who knows? But he’s right, kiddies. You’ll have stylists, and you’re not gonna resist them if you know what’s good for you. Especially you Seam brats. I know how you are.”

Adrian Valencia and Juniper Combe nod.

“We’ll be getting to the Capitol soon. Cameras are everywhere. This is your second-first impression. Your first was the Reaping, but this one isn’t any less important. Be friendly, be desirable.” Peeta Mellark advises.

“Except for you.”

A murmur in her ear. Adrian Valencia blinks at Katniss Everdeen, who moved to stand nearer to her. She is dwarfed by the Girl on Fire. They are both Seam, but even in the dredges of 12, there are divides. The community house is probably the lowest anyone can possibly go. And a year of Victory certainly helps Katniss Everdeen’s health.

“You made an impression, volunteering the way you did.”

“We can’t all be fire, Katniss Everdeen.” Adrian replies softly. Always softly.

The girl’s grey eyes bear into her. Everyone else is moving to sit, and they follow. Katniss Everdeen sits beside her now, having moved her place. Peeta Mellark is answering fluttery Juniper Combe’s questions and reassuring Samhain Vinpointe. Livius Portshore is slowly speaking out, returning to his caustic self; Haymitch Abernathy is throwing back insult for insult.

“No, we can’t all be fire,” says her mentor.

Katniss Everdeen’s gaze travels all over her, from her delicate fingers to her mass of black hair to her coal-black eyes, set deeply in her face.

“Sometimes, we’re smoke.”

“Not as impressive,” Adrian Valencia tests.

“Just as deadly.” Katniss Everdeen says.

Adrian Valencia smiles, just a little bit. She thinks it is very unfriendly, the way Katniss Everdeen stiffens, then nods approvingly. (She finds she does not care. She will not be a performing monkey for the Capitol. She has one goal in all this, and she will stick to it. That she has an audience will not change that.)

“Smoke,” she muses aloud, “The quiet killer.”

Just then, Livius Portshore stands and rattles the table. He bellows something at a laughing Haymitch Abernathy, then storms away. A door slams somewhere. A pause, and then Peeta Mellark is speaking to his Tributes again, and Haymitch Abernathy decides to rummage for whiskey in the cabinets. Effie Trinket is lecturing him, having previously chimed in to try to calm Portshore down.

Katniss Everdeen snorts. “Never liked that kid.”

“No one did. That is why he was sacrificed to die.” She says, shrugging.

“Sacrificed?”

Adrian Valencia snorts a little. “It’s all sacrifice. Someone has to die so the rest of us will live.”

“…You’re a cynical kid.”

(You are nothing like my sister. Like Rue.)

“It will keep me alive in the arena.”

(I have never wanted to be.)

The Girl on Fire smiles a little. “You’re a lot easier to work with, at least.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Katniss Everdeen.”

“Call me Katniss. Quicker.”

“Adrian.”

Another almost-smile. It’s more like a grimace. “Get ready, Adrian. We’re almost there.”

 

**…**

 

No more stylists are hired, actually. It will be a challenge to the normal District 12 stylists, to have to clothe two Tributes instead of one. Peeta Mellark’s stylist, Portia, goes to the boys. First Livius Portshore, then Samhain Vinpointe. Katniss whispers in Adrian’s ear that the girls will have Cinna, who is not as despicable as the rest of the Capitol, trust her. Adrian decides to do so, albeit reluctantly.

They want to bring her home, apparently. She will trust them to try.

The Remake Center is a flurry of activity. Twice as many Tributes means more prep work to be done, to take as much work off the stylists as possible. The older, voted Tributes go first while Samhain Vinpointe and Adrian Valencia wait together for more prep teams to find the time for them. The boy is fidgety and nervous and glances to and fro with his beady eyes. He is frightened of her, which she doesn’t mind so much. There is a certain level of fear that is acceptable.

(It’s when it gets to much, when they are afraid enough to lash out, that Adrian Valencia knows to disappear first. It’s too bad she can’t disappear from the community home, except to when she is walking to her death.)

Samhain Vinpointe is taken away by colorful figures walking on stilted shoes and wearing candy-color makeup and wigs. It is the same for her, three men with metallic pastels approach and herd her away into a room.

It is… uncomfortable. They strip her from her raggedy grey dress, first; one exclaims that it’s an abomination and should be burned. She snorts (she doesn’t think she’s ever laughed in her life, actually, now that she thinks of it) and agrees, and the man — egg-blue hair twisted complicatedly around bright, white eyelashes and heavily blushed cheeks — chirps at her happily. She fights to hold herself still, stiff with discomfort, as they wash and scrub away at the layers of dirt on her skin. She doesn’t remember the last time she had a true bath. Probably never; a washbasin and a cloth to wipe herself down is the most she’s ever gotten, and since she has been evicted from her rooms, not even that.

One of the men — bright green braids and glittery nail polish and striped clothing, shining like plastic — tuts at her disapprovingly. “We’re going to have to give you another bath, dear. The water’s filthy.”

She wonders if she should be polite.

Katniss Everdeen told her to stay true to her character, that she will do a sort of Johanna Mason: be quiet, be elegant, be superior. (“You hold yourself like you’re proud,” says the Girl on Fire, her brow furrowed in confusion, “When you’re not sneaking around. And you speak well. That’s good, I guess. That’ll surprise them.”) Adrian Valencia glowered at the thought of acting, and Katniss seemed to respect her desire to remain herself, to refrain from performing — perhaps remembering the fact that she has pretended to love a man, whom she will marry soon, in order to survive. So instead they compromise. Adrian must remain quiet, must hold back. Then she will reveal her true intentions for the Games later, perhaps during the interviews. Katniss wants to run her plan over by Peeta Mellark and Haymitch Abernathy first, but Adrian can accept this withholding of information and sees the appeal this small caution will provide.

A small Seam girl that holds herself like a noble. A diamond in the rough. Then, that diamond turns out to be a shard of obsidian, sharp as a knife, and as willing to kill as one, too. That is the death that the Capitol needs, now that their thirst for the dramatic has lessened with the ring on Katniss’ left hand.

(She thinks she and Katniss Everdeen get on well because they are both naturally quiet. But where Katniss is embers, waiting for the tiniest breathe to coax her into an inferno — _Primrose Everdeen, walking to Effie Trinket’s pale smile and waiting arms_ — Adrian is content with being smoke. She will choke the breath out of their throats and blacken their lungs silently.)

So Adrian nods to her minders. It is no issue to be polite to those who are trying to help her. Contrary to popular belief, she is not a barbarian. She simply reacts to others after they’ve treated her like garbage. Badly.

“I apologize. District 12’s hygienic situation is… lacking.”

The green-haired, glittery man laughs. It’s high-pitched. Annoying. “Of course, dear! Well, we’ll fix that right up, won’t we, boys?”

Noises of cheerful agreement. Then another bath is drawn.

By the same they move onto other things, she feels red and raw. Her skin has never been cleaner and smoother, though. Underneath the pain, that is. She is right in the middle of puberty — unfortunately — so they’re forced to rip out those soft, fine baby-hairs that are beginning to sprout on her arms and legs. But she observes her hands, her now-smooth arms, and marvels at the color. She is not quite as dark as she thought, though her skin is naturally tanner than Katniss’ or Peeta Mellark’s or Haymitch Abernathy’s.

Her hair is long and smooth, too. Without the tangles — it was matted in the back, until the blue-haired one (Fabian) left and came back with a bottle of sticky, cotton candy-blue goop that apparently fixed that — Adrian’s hair was soft, the gentle black waves crawling down to her lower back and curling at the ends naturally. It has always been bothersome, but she sees now that it makes her… somewhat childishly endearing. Cute, she thinks the word is. That will help her, or so they all giggle.

She wants to surprise the audience, after all.

“You look like a doll!” squeals Marius, the green-haired glitter-man.

“Thank you, Marius.” She says, nodding to them.

“You’re very welcome!”

“And you too, Fabian, Creon.”

They look excited that she remembers their names so easily, giggling as they leave. Adrian Valencia’s sighs as the door closes, and feels cold. Perhaps because she is standing on a podium, naked. Of course she remembers their names. Adrian Valencia cannot forget things very easily. It’s why she doesn’t pay attention in school. And probably why she is not like other children.

She waits, reciting the books and words she has seared into her memory in her head, and when the stylist Cinna comes, she believes she should put more stock into Katniss Everdeen’s words.

The man is not glittery or shiny or walking on stilts or wearing pastel colors at all. His colors are neutral and soothing, lined with silvery accents. His dark skin is uncovered by obvious makeup except for the eyes. His eyes are lined with white, the eyeshadow like puffs of gold. They make his eyes very, very green.

“Hello, Adrian. I’m Cinna.”

_You deserve to live._

Adrian stiffens, just a little. Such a soothing, baritone voice; it almost made her trust him completely. She knows not to do that; even with Katniss Everdeen’s words in her head, Adrian must make judgements based on her own observations. She trusts herself far more than the Girl on Fire.

“Katniss speaks highly of you.” She says, not betraying her thoughts further.

Cinna smiles. “She told me about you, too. It’s a good thing we have similar tastes. And that I have a good eye. Portia and I almost returned to miner’s outfits, until you volunteered, you know.”

Adrian Valencia blinks. She doesn’t think being a miner is very flattering to the image she and Katniss wish to portray.

“Come, let’s get you something to eat. I ate with Juniper already, but I’d like to speak to you. There’s some special supplements, too, that they usually give to your District. Wasn’t needed last year, I don’t think.”

Capitol technology to make her at least strong enough to put up a fight. Good.

She robes herself and pads after Cinna quietly, watching his movements. He walks like a cat, all slinky and balanced. It puts her on edge, because in the Capitol, he is ridiculously out of place. The clothes, the voice, the intelligence. It’s strange.

The room they enter is dominated by glass and metal edges. Sleek couches invite them.

There’s a strange, sloshy, blue fluid that comes with her food. She downs it — surprised that it tastes like nothing, when she is used to odd-colored liquids that are bitter and very, very healthy for her, according to Herriot — then proceeds to eat. Cinna speaks as she does, after watching her for a few minutes.

“Smoke,” he begins. “We’re going to make you smoke. Your dress will be big and billowy, won’t feel like it weighs a thing; but don’t worry, it’s dense. And it’ll be like you’re trailing ink, you’ll really look the part. No fire this time.”

“All of us?”

“Livius and Juniper are going to be embers.”

(They’re not bright enough to be fire, she thinks he means. They’re not Katniss.)

She chews on the rich meal. Fatty pork and mashed potatoes. Sour cream and chives, melted cheese. Rice and carrots and peas, dipped in a salty brown sauce. It call goes down her throat, to nourish her body, to make her strong enough to kill forty-seven other children.

Cinna continues. “We don’t want to copy last year. It’ll make you all look cheap. But you helped us with the idea, the way you volunteered. Katniss volunteered, too, but in a very different way. Portia and I tried to apply the same thing. The way you’ll be riding out in those chariots, it’ll be doubled. Juniper and Livius will go first, the embers. Then you and Samhain, the smoke.”

“How clever,” she remarks, finishing her meal. (The Capitol concoction must have done something to allow her to do that.) “People’s eyes are drawn to smoke. Am I to be the centerpiece, then?”

He’s quiet, eyes studying her intensively. From her steady hands to her dangling, newly-painted toes. Then, slowly, he grins. “Oh, they’ll _love_ you. You’re already the centerpiece, darling. We stylists are just here to make you a frame.”

Adrian almost smiles. She likes clever people. They’re hard to come by, and she tended to avoid them in the District. Clever people made bad targets and dangerous opponents. Here in the Capitol, she doesn’t need to worry about that until training tomorrow.

A thought occurs to her.

_Where there’s smoke, there’s fire._

There was that girl, last year’s games. She lit a fire, brought the Careers to her. They saw the smoke, they knew where the prey was. This would be almost delightfully ironic, though she was sure the symbolism would be lost on these brainless Capitolites. Cinna was wasted here, she thinks quietly to herself.

(Her thoughts are always quiet.)

Their eyes will be drawn to her and Samhain. Her moreso, because she truly doesn’t believe Samhain will survive, not the way he carries himself. He acts more Seam than she does, in truth, but that’s perhaps because her head is always in books and movies more than in her own self-pity and starvation, like Juniper. So their eyes will follow her.

Livius Portshore and Juniper Combe are not the fire. Who is?

Katniss Everdeen.

They will see Adrian Valencia, and they will look for Katniss Everdeen.

She wonders why. And if this is purposeful.

(The look in Cinna’s eyes, she thinks it is. But it’s not her place to say anything.)

“It’s almost time,” Cinna murmurs. Then he looks up at her. “Shall we get set?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... she's a little messed up, isn't she? Meh.

She will admit that Cinna and Portia have talent in making physical impossibilities seem possible. First, they create the Girl on Fire. Then, they cloak her in robes of smoke.

Adrian stands stoically next to Samhain Vinpointe, ignoring him and the crowd that screams as they exit behind Portshore and Combe. The two teenagers look like they are wearing scorched wood and shadows, sparks of light drifting from their suits lazily. When her eyes flicker to the screens, past the roaring Capitolites, she sees their expressions, too. Portshore has a familiar, sharp smile on his face that looks just a slight bit queasier than normal; it is a good attempt at confidence. Combe simply looks sick, eyes darting all over the place; there is a certain slouch to her shoulders that makes her look defeated already. Then the cameras switch and Adrian is suddenly looking at herself.

Their clothing is not immodest, as they are only twelve. It’s almost militaristic, black cloth stretching from their necks to their wrists to their ankles. There are sleek lines of a material that is black but glitters silver when the light hits it right, accenting the tiniest curves of their developing bodies. One-shouldered cloaks drape across them, however, and flow out behind their backs like ink in water. It’s cloth, or some sort of strange material that feels like liquid, black as her hair and curling around the sharp cuts of their uniform-like costumes, fading ethereally.

They’re smoke.

Though Vinpointe looks pale and drawn, it only brings Adrian’s own sharp expression to to the crowd’s attentions. Her eyes and hair seem a part of the costume, endless and dangerous, and her shoulders are straight, back like iron, cheekbones sharp and cutting with how malnourished she has been.

They’re dressed like smoke, but Adrian Valencia looks like death.

(The Capitol adores it, this dichotomy of innocent child and black-clad soldier.)

(She understands why Katniss hugged Cinna when she saw him again.)

The parade is longer than she would’ve imagined it, even accounting for the doubled number of Tributes. Most other Districts made their entire four-piece set match: precious metals and elegant stone for the Careers of Districts 1 and 2, lightning bolt theme for 3, clothing like scales for 4, etc.

Adrian Valencia listens to President Snow’s speech with half an ear, more focused on observing the other Tributes.

“-are, for the third Quarter Quell since the founding of our nation-”

District 1 and 2. Four eighteen-year-olds, the voted-in. No doubt their District was told who to vote for; Adrian would be surprised if District 1 and 2 didn’t always vote in their Tributes, based on scores or a competition of some sort. The Peacekeeper academy is somewhere there, a front for Tribute-training. The twelve-year-olds are just as confident, just as determined-looking. Most of them were volunteers, if she remembers correctly.

“-twenty-four Tributes became forty-eight, in order for our people to remember-”

Threats, she looks for threats. 3? Perhaps, depending on the arena. She remembers that boy who rigged the mines last year, who that District 2 Tribute killed with a snap of his neck. 4 is Career, all of them tanned and muscular and siren-like, beautiful and hungry for blood. A Tribute from District 9 looks particularly vicious, the way his female counterpart edges away from him. 11 is not as strong this year. A girl from 7 has a wildness in her eyes that could either get her killed or make her a monster; Adrian recognizes that look from that one, particular massacre in the 48th Hunger Games, the Victor who killed herself a few years after Abernathy’s Quarter Quell.

They said she died from illness, of course. Adrian has never believed that, not after having heard that Victor’s sobbing screams as she butchered her opponents. It was a carnival of blood, that year.

The same look was in that 4th District’s Tribute, too. Not Odair, but the girl. Annie Cresta, she thinks.

“-for the sake of remembering. For the sake of our Districts. For the sake of Panem-”

Quietly and quickly, just before Snow finishes his speech, she happens to lock eyes with a twelve-year-old Career from District 1. Pale-haired and dark-eyed, standing as straight as she is, an assessing look to his gaze. If he survives the Games, she can see his baby fat melting away to reveal a man all made of sharp edges.

She tilts her head to one side, showing some sign of consideration.

The dark brown eyes narrow.

A small curve of her lips. Not friendliness; she’s never known how to look friendly. It’s more like a baring of her teeth, if anything. A polite snarl.

The boy blinks.

Then his chariot shudders, and suddenly the little Career is gone. District 2 follows, then 3, then 4, and on and on. They’re exiting the circle, paraded just once more — like dangling meat in front of a starving dog — and the crowd screams as they leave. She suppresses an instinctive wince at the volume, and at the sheer amount of colors and sparkle; it’s migraine-inducing. She simply faces forward, never sparing them a glance. She has things to think about, things to do.

“You could try to smile,” whispers Samhain Vinpointe quietly.

“I am not here to perform for them.” She answers dignifiedly.

“But… sponsors…”

They are out of view of the crowd now, though their cries are easily heard through the steel and concrete and stone. She glances at Vinpointe, who is looking away nervously, biting his lip. She’s never interacted with him, though she vaguely remembers his presence in school. Dark brown hair and blue eyes and a body that is just beginning to grow lanky, fidgeting with the ends of his shirt, with the billowing cloth that was hiding them like smoke.

“Don’t concern yourself with me. I am an enemy, Vinpointe.”

“I… Yeah. I know.” Vinpointe looks away, then. “It’s just… You’re scary, but not like Livius.”

She glances at Portshore, then, who is jumping from the chariot and knocking Combe down in the process. She sniffles, and he sneers and walks towards a waiting Haymitch Abernathy. There is a lot of anger in him, now. The numbness of fear has hardened, as it always does for that one.

“Portshore is cruel.”

“You’re not, though.” Vinpointe says quickly.

Adrian studies Vinpointe more closely. “You are looking for protection in the Games.”

He stiffens, starts to shake his head… Then stops. Gives up. “A little, yeah. But mostly… I think it’s gonna be the voted against the Reaped this time. The older teens against us kids. The way some Tributes were looking at the twelves… I just… wanna be sure.”

She had to grant that one to him. She’s run the scenario through her head, too, but dismissed it in favor of observing the group training. Assumptions were dangerous, and she did not want to be caught early. She needed to last.

“It will be clearer tomorrow, though that is a possibility.” She says.

The boy looks proud of himself for some reason. Then he ducks his head again. “Um. Uh. A-Anyways. I just… Juniper is really snippy, you know? Ignores me because I’m from town. And Livius is…” _A pathetic bully,_ she thinks. “-just himself. I just… wanted to talk to someone.”

Loneliness, she sees now. She knows what that feels like, but she has a soft memory of hands brushing her hair and a whispered voice in her ear to keep it at bay. So she nods at Vinpointe.

“Until the Games, Vinpointe.”

The boy lightens. “Okay. Yeah. Until the Games.”

She eyes him. “I mean it. It would be better for you to make friends with other Districts regardless. In probability, I’ll be going to the Careers.”

Vinpointe nods. “That’s fair. I think you can make it with them. Um. Can I call you Adrian?”

“…Alright.”

“And you should call me Samhain. Not Vinpointe. Or Sammy. Everyone calls- called me that.”

“Samhain,” she tests out.

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah- Uh- Oh. I think our mentors are waiting.”

Indeed they were. Juniper Combe was having Peeta Mellark’s attention lavished on her while Portshore was in another snarling match with Abernathy. Katniss is looking towards her and Samhain, waiting expectantly. They are one of the only Tribute pairs still on their chariot, the rest having deserted, clustering around their mentors like sectioned colors. Seafoam-green and silver and blue near Finnick Odair and Mags Flanagan and two other Victors, mentors. Bright golds and flashing winks of pearl near Cashmere and Gloss, the siblings. Deep browns and greens next to Johanna Mason and Blight.

A sea of color and opulence. It’s even more irritating up-close than from the projectors.

She says as much, in a very careful whisper, to Katniss Everdeen.

The Girl on Fire smirks. “I know what you mean.”

They’re leaving now. All of them. They’re returning to those decadent suites reserved for Victors. As the highest-numbered District, they’re on the highest floor, just under the rooftop gardens. Adrian thinks she’d like to ask one of the Avoxes for a book, so she can read up there for an hour or two, compose herself.

“It’s disgusting,” sighs Katniss, shaking her head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

For just a moment, Adrian wonders why Katniss is being so free with her thoughts around her. Because they are both Seam? Because they are both female? Because Adrian is just a bit younger than Primrose Everdeen? It’s obvious, by this easy relationship between the two of them — not close, but _simple_ — that Katniss does not share that jadedness that most mentors gain after only a few short years.

(Adrian remembers watching the Archive vids, seeing Victors lose the light in their eyes with each consecutive year of losing. She remembers watching Haymitch Abernathy’s straight shoulders slump with the weight of the blood of children.)

She hopes that Katniss does not take her death too badly. She may not adore the girl as much as the Capitol does, or approve of how sloppily she seemed to become the figure of a half-cocked rebellion (District 8 was shut down for quite a while, she remembers from last year), but Adrian respects Katniss for the skills she has and the fact that she won.

There’s a quick moment where Katniss turns back and blinks at Adrian. An indication that she is waiting for her. When Adrian steps out from her thoughts — she gets lost in them very easily, which is rather dangerous, she admits this — for some odd reason, Katniss rewards her with a small smile.

Barely a twitch of her lips, but Adrian _does_ see it.

Odd. Doesn’t she know, the Girl on Fire, that attachments will kill you in the end?

 

**…**

 

Adrian almost feels overwhelmed. If she weren’t so practiced in compartmentalization, she might be like Juniper Combe right now, sobbing into her pillows and blankets in her room. But Adrian clamps down on the panic, the uneasiness, the _aggression_ which is her default reaction to annoying, foreign, or overly-emotional situations, and processes what she experiences in easily digested fragments.

First. Samhain wishes to be somewhat friendly with her. Extremely out of character and definitely not her area of expertise, but the child is lonely and about to die; there are certain allowances made, and she would be a poor human being indeed if she mocked or ignored the boy, who, while he hasn’t done anything _for_ her, has never done anything _to_ her, either.

Second. Katniss wishes to become her friend, or at least, wishes to establish a relationship of trust with her. This is perhaps due to Katniss’ projecting her little sister onto the conveniently small, fragile- _looking_ girl, perhaps because she is taking her mentorship responsibilities seriously, but more likely because Katniss Everdeen seems to _like_ Adrian. That’s much more strange than the former reasons, but their similar quietness, backgrounds, and subtle habits of observing and telling things as they are seem to bind them together in some way. As Katniss doesn’t demand anything ridiculous from Adrian, she doesn’t suppose she should react negatively to the foreign, positive attention.

Third. Haymitch Abernathy is crying — quite obviously drunkenly so, but the fact remains — and there is no one else around.

Adrian Valencia didn’t seem to ever absorb the fact that the Games made things very emotional behind closed doors, off-camera. She doesn’t think she’s interacted with other people like this is a very long time. (They’re like emotional volcanoes, exploding at every slight provocation, and she just happens to be a canyon. Empty.)

It, quite honestly, disturbs her.

_Why is Haymitch Abernathy crying?_

It’s late, enough that the gardens are empty except for two District 12 souls. One of which is cradling a bottle of alcohol — hard stuff, she thinks — and the other of which is hiding and watching, and not having a clue on what to do.

She isn’t sure if she even _likes_ Haymitch Abernathy. She watched him kill people when he was young, she watched the hope leave his eyes with every passing year as he stood behind walking gravestones. He seems to enjoy the fact that she has no aversion to killing or death, but he is Portshore’s mentor, not hers.

(She is confused and annoyed. She just wanted to read _Greek Mythology_.)

But Adrian isn’t Portshore, who would mock others’ pain in order to marginalize his own — or so she assumes he does, with how he seems much calmer after breaking boys like Selkirk’s wrists — so she approaches. Her feet are bare and the breeze ruffles her loose pajamas airily, and there’s earth in between her toes, and Katniss earlier taught her how to braid so her hair isn’t cascading all down her face. She’s practiced in silence and stealth, but she makes some little noises so that Abernathy doesn’t attack her; he may be a washed-out Tribute, but the man was still a Victor, and some instincts simply don’t fade with time, especially with how he returns, again and again, to his personal nightmare.

Sniffles and deep breaths. He’s trying to muffle himself, hunched in on himself on the white bench. There are several bottles rolling at his ankles, clinking musically in the quiet gardens.

She doesn’t do anything but sit down beside him gingerly, not too close but close enough that if he reached out, he’d be able to touch her. Her memories of comfort and soft touches suggest that distressed people like that, but she also knows that it’s not her place to simply force a hug. It’s not comforting that way.

(She was given the choice to bite down and tear, or to let go. It saved her, a little.)

Another sniffle, and then Abernathy wipes his nose slightly. “What’re you doin’ up?”

Adrian opens her book and begins to skim. “I just wanted to read.”

“Go to sleep, brat. Big day tomorrow.”

She doesn’t like lying. She doesn’t like babying people, either. She can be subtle with her innermost thoughts, with her observations, with her movements; but people are a whole different matter, and she can’t bring herself to be purposefully tactful. 

“If you’d like to be alone, say so. Otherwise… I suppose it’s nice to know that there’s someone there.” Adrian says, not looking at him, but not reading the words in her book, either.

A pause.

“Should’a known you weren’t gonna ask anything.”

Her eyes flicker sideways, glancing at him briefly. Haymitch Abernathy isn’t crying anymore, he simply has glassy eyes and a reddened face. He looks exhausted and furious, learning more towards the former than the latter. He probably stopped crying the moment he could hear her.

She goes back to her book. “It’s not my place to demand answers from you.”

Another pause. He’s formulating his thoughts, she thinks. “Why’re you here?”

“To read. And… It’s easier to cry when you’re not alone. And harder.”

He snorts. “You’d know, Seam brat.” Abernathy says, voice laced with sarcasm.

“It’s… nice, to be given a choice. It’s easier and harder, isn’t it? I’ll stay if it’s easier. And I’ll leave if it’s harder. Your choice.” She says, shrugging. Then she looks up again. “I’m rather indifferent to you, Abernathy. But it wouldn’t be…” She glances at the book. “…honorable, if I let one of my mentors suffer needlessly.”

“Honor. Pffft. You talk like a Career, too.”

She sets the book aside. It seems it’s easier, this time. “The concept of honor isn’t owned by Districts 1, 2, and 4.”

“Fairytales. Heh. Didn’t take you to be one of those little girls.”

“There’s not much honor in fairytales. Only a little, sometimes.”

Haymitch Abernathy looks both genuinely curious and extremely relieved (at the turn of the conversation, the distraction). She thinks he wanted to be her mentor but decided it was safer for them — for all of them — if they paired her with Katniss. Not that she would have minded either way, as she has grown to appreciate Katniss and her almost-embarrassed concern and care for her, but still. Haymitch Abernathy likely wants her as a Tribute, especially considering his current student is _Livius Portshore_. 

“You’re not bringing that honor into the Arena, are you?” he asks.

Adrian looks up at the sky. It’s the same as home, almost. Rather than being obscured by plumes of smoke, the stars are dulled by how bright the Capitol seems to be. Blinding.

“In the original tale of the Little Mermaid, the mermaid woman kills herself rather than have to kill the man she loved. She gave her life for his, because he gave her meaning,” she says dully. “I hate Hansel and Gretel, though. They do not fight the witch, who seemed to be nothing but a crazy woman. They trick her into burning alive. Where is the honor in being led into a trap stupidly, and not even having the decency to face their opponent face-to-face?”

“Talkative, all of a sudden?” grunts Abernathy.

Talkative, perhaps, but not straightforward. She’s not speaking the answers to his questions. He probably knows this.

“I don’t have the words to explain why I think the way I do.”

( _I want to kill._ )

Haymitch Abernathy chuckles, and finishes off his bottle. Whiskey, she reads. “Damn Quarter Quells. Damn double Tributes.” He spat. “Fuck. It’s like goddamn… It’s like goddamn being a Tribute again.”

More swearing, but enough information that Adrian understands. The doubled tributes is very much like the 50th Hunger Games. It probably gives the man nightmares, remembering the bloodfest that was his Games. She thinks he says the name of his ally, the Donner girl — Maysilee? — but he’s snarling and grumbling and swearing too much for her to be completely sure.

At least she knows why the man was crying earlier.

“Listen up.”

It’s commanding enough that she straightens in her seat, obeying. Abernathy eyes her warily.

“Tomorrow at training, there’s gonna be fucking forty-eight of you. I’m guessing you’re going to the Careers.”

She nods.

Abernathy does the same, looking at the distance. Thinking. “Alright. Katniss says you’re not into the acting thing, and frankly, that’s good. For you. You’ve got a character that the damn Capitol will love. ‘Lil Seam brat that rose to glory or whatever. They’ll eat it up. Katniss told you to keep your mouth shut?”

“Until the interviews.”

“Good. We’re gonna go with that. But let a bit of it out when you train tomorrow. The Careers will be watching — everyone’s gonna be watching the twelve-year-old Volunteer — but you wanna reel them in. Peeta kissed ass last year, but I don’t think that’s what you wanna do.”

The notion of performing in order to gain the good graces of others actually makes her want to kill something. She has been kicked down and kicked over, but she has never simply lay there to let them do it. She’s always fought, tooth and nail. She has always demanded to be treated human, because she knows.

_You deserve to live._

Haymitch Abernathy chuckles at her. “Dunno how you kept your pride in the Seam, but that’s… somethin’. A 12, acting like a Career. Damn. Huh. You friends with Katniss and the Vinpointe kid?”

“Of a sort.”

“Tch. Charismatic, in your odd way. That might get the Careers, too. Honor and a bit of charisma. Probably because you’re pretty damn honest about what you’re feelin’, even if no one knows what you’re thinkin’.”

“Is this cross-examination something you do every year?”

“Only with the ones that can win.”

Adrian blinks. “I don’t want to win.”

“You could make it.”

“I don’t doubt that. But I don’t particularly want to win.”

“Why the hell not?” He sounds a bit frustrated, now.

Adrian smiles a little, the smile that scares people. “They say I’m obsessed with death.”

Abernathy sighs. “You’re one big ball of crazy, aren’t you?”

She almost laughs.

Haymitch Abernathy rolls his eyes. “You might as well last as long as you can, in any case. We’ll work on your crazy later. Anyways, allies. Show off to the Careers, but not too much. Careers don’t often have sneaky brats like you, but they know to respect them. Or, at least, be careful with them. Especially with last year’s games, the girl from 11 and the girl from 5. Demonstrate your stealth; there’s a station for that, it’s got pressure plates and computerized sentinels look for you in an obstacle course.”

“I’d have to watch someone else go first.”

“Someone will. Don’t worry. The non-Career Districts always go for that one.”

“What should I do first?”

“Up to you. Don’t do anything that needs strength. Don’t do anything that needs endurance. Agility and finesse for you. You’ll have to go through an obstacle course first thing, to measure yourself. Concentrate on the dodging and the running, not the shit you’re bad at.”

Adrian sighed. “It’s almost a performance.”

He raised a brow. “That matter?”

She hums a little. She doesn’t want to be some sick sycophant to the Careers; no, if she had to do that, she’d rather just kill them all. She doesn’t want to… compromise her pride, she supposes. To pretend to be a sniveling little girl like Johanna Mason did, to bow to the Careers like masters like Peeta Mellark did; it grates on her, having to bow to others so publicly and obviously like that. But she can retain her pride if she performs well tomorrow, shows the Careers she isn’t a weak link, but an asset.

“No, that’s alright, I suppose.”

Haymitch Abernathy reaches over. The alcohol is probably compromising his intelligence, because he plants his calloused hands in her hair and ruffles carelessly, sloppily. Her braid is a bit messy now, and Adrian is too shocked to do anything but blink her large, black eyes up at the Victor in confusion.

He grins a little. It’s teasing. “You’re too serious, for a brat.”

“And you’re intoxicated.”

“Thank God.”

They don’t move from there for a while. She goes back to her book, and he has somehow produced another bottle of alcohol from inside his fluffy, robe-like jacket. They don’t say anything more, but Adrian thinks she’s no longer quite indifferent to Haymitch Abernathy now. Despite the fact that he seems to enjoy alcohol to an unhealthy degree, slurs most of his words because of that, and is extremely crude and careless. But Adrian likes him. It’s difficult not to, when he so obviously wants her to live. 

(She’s weak to that sort of thing.)

 

**…**

 

“Goddamn barrel of contradictions, you.”

She blinks up at Haymitch. “Good morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, kid. Drink your supplement? Good. You look a bit better already.”

And she does, actually. With every meal and snack, she’s given that bright blue concoction. Her olive skin isn’t waxy anymore, her hair is a bit more shiny. She won’t put on weight until the interviews, Cinna explained (when she asked him after the introductory speech), but the vitamins and nutrients are suffusing her blood. As she walks, her body is fighting off years of neglect and starvation.

(That’s probably why she’s in so much pain right now. If this is what most District 12 kids go through before the Games, Adrian is suddenly understanding of their low scores. It will be difficult to show off her skills when her very _bones_ feel like they’re splintering apart and scrabbling back together.)

She nods to Haymitch, who snorts.

“Kid, I dunno _who_ raised you, but you freak me the hell out.”

“Are you referring to your lack of hangover today?”

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You act all indifferent and shit, and then you apparently make sure I’m okay. Where the hell did you get that shit I drank this morning anyways?”

“An Avox.”

“Why the hell aren’t I supplied with those regularly?”

She tilts her head to the left consideringly. “Probably because you deserve the hangover.”

“What the- You little brat-!”

(They are familiar words, but there’s some sort of… warmth to them, today. Odd.)

Katniss glances between the two of them, back and forth and back and forth, looking confused and almost horrified. She’s not the only one, as Peeta Mellark and Juniper Combe look rather taken aback as well.

“Since when did you two become friends?” Peeta Mellark asks, a brow raised.

Haymitch Abernathy grins at him. “Since the twelve-year-old made sure I was fed and watered and hangover-free. You two wanna tell me why neither of you’ve ever done that for me before?”

“Adrian already said.” Katniss chimes in, recovering from her shock, “You deserve it, drunkard.”

There’s a pleasant air at the breakfast table that morning, laughter and playful banter pushing all thoughts of death from them. Even Adrian finds herself rather… not content, she wouldn’t say that, but _at peace._ Rested. She manages to eat quite a bit, quietly listening as Katniss and Abernathy trade smirks and barbs, as Peeta laughs along with Samhain, as Juniper Combe giggles into her mountain of food (still hunched over it protectively, a gleam of hunger in her dull blue eyes).

The only other quiet presence is Livius Portshore, and she eyes him with a sort of ironic amusement. She wonders if that slant of his mouth is homesickness — did his family, with all their money and affluence, have mornings like this? — or confusion. She thinks it might be the latter, the way his eyes dart from face to face, and she nods to herself; she can’t imagine Livius Portshore of all people having a good relationship with anyone that doesn’t suck up to his father’s name. Including his family. (It’s so ironic, really, Adrian thinks it might be sad — if Portshore wasn’t a poor excuse of a human being, that was.)

She turns her eyes back to Haymitch Abernathy, who is starting to address them all again, in that sort of voice that she equates to the “mentor” side of him more than the “drunkard” side.

“First day of group training. There’s an initial assessment after you’re introduced, every Tribute takes it. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it for you: this is the first impression you’ve got on the other Tributes, and none of you are gonna make a good one.”

That little insult is apparently all Portshore can take.

“Why did you prepare us for this, then?? How are we supposed to survive without allies? If my father ever caught wind of this- this _deliberate sabotage_ , Abernathy, I guarantee you that, Victor or not, he could fucking-”

“Oh, shut up, kid. Daddy ain’t here, and I wasn’t finished yet. Sit down.”

“Seeing double of me, Abernathy? Drunk already? It’s a wonder you haven’t keeled over yet with how much garbage you’re willing to kill yourself with.” Portshore sneers. “You haven’t been helping _any_ of us-”

Katniss’ jaw seemed tighter than usual. “Haymitch has been talking to Adrian, Portshore-”

His expression sharpens, then. “A drunkard _and_ a pedophile. I guess you Victors need your coping mechanisms, especially if you’re attracted to a little Seam rat-”

Abernathy is about to throw blows, Adrian can tell.

But it is Peeta Mellark who stands and takes hold of Portshore’s upper arm in his iron grip, squeezing and making the boy — who seems so much smaller, standing next to Mellark, even if he was better-fed and the exact same age — wince.

“Enough,” Peeta Mellark says, not softly, but calmly. “Don’t be stupid, Portshore.”

“The only stupid one here is you, Mellark,” Livius Portshore hisses scathingly, trying and failing to shake Mellark’s hand off, “If it weren’t for the efforts of the Girl on Fire, you’d be mutt food.”

Adrian does not form attachments. If needed, she will leave Katniss and Abernathy and Samhain in the dust; if that is what it takes for her to reach her goal, to make it through the Games the way she needs to, that is what she will do. She has long since been able to separate wants and needs and everything else.

She is not attached. But she still likes Katniss, whose epithet is said on the verge of mocking, and she is on the fence with Haymitch Abernathy, who was insulted already and has still not retaliated (which is impressive, to her). She even slightly holds Samhain in regard, if only because of his courage to speak to her through his fear and his generally unobtrusive nature.

This, plus the fact that Livius Portshore annoys her with his very existence, is what prompts her to speak.

“Mocking a room full of killers. I’ve always thought you stupid and sad, Portshore, but this is something else.”

She says is calmly, as she eats and sips at some sweet liquid, and the room quiets and turns to her. Perhaps it is because she so rarely offers her voice without being asked for it. Or maybe they’re surprised that she defends some of them at all. Adrian Valencia herself is aware that it is uncharacteristic of her, to break her cold silence with a piece of her thoughts like that.

But then again, she has never liked so many people at once. It’s somewhat… disconcerting.

“What would you know, brat?” Portshore snarled, finally shaking Mellark off of him.

Her eyes turn cold. She knows it, by the way he flinches from her. She smiles, and she almost wants to chuckle when he aborts an instinctive step backwards. (Was she so frightening? Her, a starving Seam brat that could still feel the grooves between her ribs?)

“Do you think,” she says liltingly, “that I’ve never met a killer in the Seam? You’re more stupid than I thought, in that case. And much more short-sighted. I don’t understand how you manage to dress yourself everyday.”

“You little _bitch-”_

“Touch her and you’ll see firsthand why I won the Games, Portshore.” Katniss snarls, knocking her chair backwards with the force of her standing. There’s a knife in her hands, held like a dagger even with its dull shine.

Portshore evidently sees that he has no allies here, that he’s discarded them all. He turns and makes to return to his room, and it’s only because Adrian knows what sort of disgusting child he is that she’s not surprised at his one last barb:

“Protect her all you like, _Everdeen_ , but she’ll go. Just like that kid from 11. All of us will.”

Katniss falters, and then Juniper Combe excuses herself.

She mutters, Combe, just before she leaves, “Portshore’s a bastard, but he’s gone one thing right. We’re all going to die. So stop lying to us about it.”

Adrian doesn’t miss the flinch from Peeta Mellark as Juniper Combe leaves.

She and Samhain are the only ones still sitting. He’s stopped eating, but Adrian continues. The adults — well, the Victors — are standing, looking after the two older Tributes, the angry ones, the ones who were chosen to die. After a while, Peeta Mellark strides out; she isn’t sure whether he wishes to be alone, or wishes to comfort Combe. The first, she thinks, when Katniss follows after him quickly.

Abernathy sighs. “Well, fuck.” he mutters, walking out as well, picking a bottle of whiskey out of the breakfast pile as he does, and unceremoniously jugging at it when as he walks back to his rooms.

Samhain is no longer eating, and looks vaguely nauseous.

“How can you keep eating like that, Adrian?” he whispers.

It’s not judging. It’s not disgusted. He simply wants to know how she continues on.

Adrian blinks at him in between bites. “I’m Seam. I need to eat to be as fit as possible for the Games.”

“But… They’re right. What are the chances of us surviving? Even… Even if you’re really good at sneaking an-and you’re willing to fight, you’re just… so small. Me, too. We’re just so small, and the Careers aren’t, and…”

He begins to hyperventilate. Adrian sighs.

“Breathe, Samhain.” she commands, eyes sharpened. She doesn’t really want to see someone die before the Games.

Surprisingly, the boy does. He looks teary-eyed and panicky, but he does. He breathes.

She nods at him. “There is no use tormenting yourself with what-if’s,” she says, pushing his plate of food nearer to him quietly, “Lock away your fear. It will not help you here. Eat and get stronger and breathe. That’s what living is, in its purest form.”

_You deserve to live._

It’s a simple concept. You deserve to eat. You deserve to grow. You deserve to breathe. She knows it was meant much more complicatedly, which is why she needs to read and watch so much, because she still can only barely understand it. But she can explain to Samhain that simplest concept.

“Everyone dies,” she says, almost carefully, “Which is why you deserve to live.”

“…What?”

“Every breath, even the last, you deserve it,” she says impatiently, “So fight for it.”

Samhain looks at his unfinished plate. Then he eats, and Adrian wants to roll her eyes. Finally. It’s almost nonsensical, how they all trouble themselves so much. He worries about dying, when he should be using that energy to make sure he doesn’t. Why fret and cry so much that the fight leaves your body?

Adrian has never questioned it, not since that day where she — quite literally — bit the hand that fed her. She will live and fight not to die. She will die, but it doesn’t matter, because she will have done her damned best to stay alive. Just because she deserved to live didn’t mean she could grow complacent, whining for others to help her up; that was stupid, and pathetic. She knew, and she would take her life into her own hands.

That Samhain is trying to glean confidence from her own sureness in her life is good. Perhaps he could fight harder. She has never thought that she would have to kill him in the Games, but perhaps now. And maybe that was better, because to die by a merciful hand would be better than some of the depravities she’d witnessed before.

The thought of slitting his throat makes her feel heavy, though. She sighs as she drank her nutritional supplement.

They eat in silence, quick and careful, as if they are starving when they have never eaten so well before. It is not pleasant or content as it was before, but Adrian Valencia doesn’t mind. And neither does Samhain Vinpointe, with how ferociously he stuffs his face, tears streaming down his cheeks as he does so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit. So, I mean, I do like this fic. I like how oddly Adrian views the world, even if it doesn’t make much sense to most, because she’s a really twisted kid that was always treated more like a stray dog than a human. Anyways, sorry that this isn’t being updated as much as I wish.
> 
> Cross-posted from ff.net, of course.

 

**…**

 

The first day of group training goes almost exactly as the Tributes and their mentors imagine it. Adrian isn’t surprised that when they enter, eyes zero in on herself and Katniss, who escorts all four of them but sticks closest to her. They are the volunteers of 12, and though they seem similar with their collected gazes and quiet manners, they are different. Fire is not the same as smoke, and vice versa.

Samhain is close enough that if he reached just an inch or two over, their hands would touch. She thinks that if they weren’t being scrutinized by forty-four other Tributes, he might reach over for comfort. He seems so much younger than his twelve years, Adrian thinks, and it’s a pity, because that won’t matter to some of the killers in here.

There’s a hand gently pushing the small of her back. Katniss’ fingers on her back and her murmur in their ears.

“Do what you have to, be good, don’t start fights.” is her advice. She looks very pointedly at Livius Portshore for the last one, though.

Portshore doesn’t reply. His tongue is sharp and his attitude acerbic, and Adrian is sure that if he didn’t keep his silence, he would say something rude; and this time, there is no Peeta Mellark to calm Katniss down and prevent her from attacking him. Another reason why Katniss Everdeen is deemed ‘The Girl on Fire’: she so easily follows through with her emotions. (Volunteering for her sister, attaching herself to a child, caring for Peeta Mellark despite everything; how easily she burns, and burns brightly.)

Juniper Combe is cowering slightly behind him. Adrian knows what sort of girl she is: the better part of Seam, a full family but not quite enough food; full of misplaced pride, longing for town life and trying to act like one of them but utterly hating anyone above her station; quietly keeping everything close to her chest, unable to comprehend her own emotions so completely that she’s constantly paralyzed and on the sidelines.

(Needless to say, Adrian does not enjoy Juniper Combe’s character. There is, after all, a reason she and Portshore were voted to die so others would live.)

She’s almost fond of how Samhain refuses to tremble — even slightly — as the other two are. He faces forward and though he doesn’t meet gazes the way she does, he does not bow his head, either. It is good.

Katniss is not there anymore, only the four of them. Adrian leads because the others will not, or cannot.

“You would do best,” she mutters near-silently to Samhain, “to find the other children and train with them. Survival skills and alliance-building.”

Samhain doesn’t nod — she has impressed upon him the importance of not parading their quasi-friendship about, for both their sakes — but he glances at her and then breaks away, heading to the fire-starting camps. He would have a few hours to work on what he wanted, before the trainers came to assess them and give them guidelines. All Tributes were welcome to the training rooms whenever they wished, though official training only began at noon.

Interest in her slowly dies out in favor of need to train to survive, and she lingers, trying to find the stealth training area. When she does, she sighs a little; it’s not open, like many of the more intensive training units, and won’t be until group training with the actual trainers.

Which leaves weapon training. She won’t go to survival training until later, but a knife in her quiet hands would certainly do her good. Katniss suggested, when she admitted an interest in knife-work, to learn how to throw them, if she could; which was obvious of the Girl on Fire, whose weapons were purely long-range.

The idea is a good one, though, and Adrian makes to practice when a figure steps out in front of her, stopping her.

She knows him.

“One,” she greets with a considering nod.

“Twelve.” Says the boy with pale hair and dark eyes.

“Did you need something?” Adrian asks, somewhat knowing exactly what the other Tribute wanted.

He studies her. Then his eyes flicker to the corner, where the spear-throwing is. All of the Careers are there, 12-year-olds and teenagers alike, looking pristine and beautiful and utterly deadly as they easily heft lances at targets. They are even better trained than last Games, possibly because of how their 74th Tributes were killed by Katniss and Peeta Mellark. Adrian thinks it is a good thing, indeed, that she plans on being counted in their number, seeing how easily they destroy Capitol-crafted dummies.

“We were shown, in your mentors’ Games last year, the value of stealth,” the boy says slowly.

She thinks of a girl in the trees, finger to her lips. She thinks of a knife to a branch, the sawing motion, the withheld breath of the crowd as she slipped between them. She thinks of the moment the brach snapped, the Careers screamed, and two Tributes — one of whom went on to become a Victor — walked away from it all.

“I’d imagine so.” She replies blandly, but not impolitely.

“You’re being considered. That’s all.” _So show us why you should be a Career,_ goes unsaid.

A test. They wish to assess her. Adrian Valencia wonders who else they have approached. Perhaps the voted-in from 7? The one with the crazed look in her eyes, the one who could either be a monster or just another fallen. Her eyes dart around, looking for others with slighter frames and quiet natures.

She sighs. It’s too early. Everyone is quiet, coiled tighter than clock springs with tension.

“Not until noon,” she says softly as the boy from District 1 turns, and glances back at the soft lilt of her voice, “After the Trainer is finished with us. My best station doesn’t open until then.”

The boy’s gaze lingers, conflicted. Then he nods sharply. 

It’s an utterly odd thing to see, Adrian thinks to herself. In her books, she knows children are meant to be carefree and happy and little balls of sunshine. Or something of that nature. But he walks like he was trained, nods like he understands that they might be splattering each other in blood in little more than a week. 

It should be pitiful. Adrian only feels empathy.

(He has not wanted something to eat so badly that he’s bitten into rats and felt their soft bellies come away under his teeth. But she has not been groomed from birth in some need to bring glory to a District that loves to raise child killers, has not been targeted and singled out the moment the other Tributes learned what number graced the Capitol-made uniform.)

They don’t introduce themselves. It’s easier that way, Adrian thinks. If you do not know the names of the bodies you will be killing, you will be less inclined to feel guilty afterwards. The opening Cornucopia bloodbath is all business; mechanical, easy. Kill to get what you need to survive. After that, death is systematic. Hunt down competitors of your resources, challengers to the much-coveted Victor’s (survivor’s) crown. Then it becomes personal. Those you hunted with become your prey, and names said in laughter are now snarled and breathed in death rattles.

Who will she be to the Careers?

That’s what they’re asking. Adrian Valencia knows the answer, like she knows that she will not survive easily on her own, like she knows a mouse’s stealth could help clumsy, large predators, if only they knew to work together.

 

**…**

 

Noon announces the Trainers and the general assessment. It’s a very simple obstacle course, made for one Tribute to go through while the others watch and judge. There are already opinions from what choices of stations the Tributes chose before the Trainers came, but this course cements that further. To look into your opponent’s physical capabilities, that is an important element of the course.

The Careers do well, as expected. District 1’s Tributes are the strongest, though there is a tall red-head from 2 that is faster and looks more vicious. District 3 is negligible, one boy trips, the voted-in girl has some of the worst scores the Trainers have ever seen, which is announced loudly and causes much laughter. District 4 is more elegant, more fluid, just like their sea-faring District, but quite strong in their own right; not as fast as the 2, but more graceful in their dodging and ducking.

Adrian watches closely, never taking her eyes from the course, memorizing everything about it in order to make a better impression. She is not healthy, her body is only just getting to a slightly good weight, but she is fast and agile and silent. The silence won’t make much difference here, but if she can get through quickly, perhaps her lack of stamina will be overlooked.

Portshore is the first of them to go, and while he is definitely not Career level, he is not the worst. Unsurprising, she thinks, because Portshore has always been rather vain and took care of his appearance and health. His movements are clumsy, as he is not used to vaulting over and under obstacles, swinging from bar to bar, dodging foam projectiles as fast as he can. He’s one of the oldest Tributes, and she thinks he’ll survive for quite a while if he doesn’t get caught in the Cornucopia bloodbath.

Combe is next, and she is abysmal. She tries to copy what others have done with her still-weakened body, often overshooting or missing timing. There are bruises on her from how many times she’s been hit with the projectiles, and she breaks into tears even as she tries vainly to keep her emotions down. She’s not the only one, but there are traces of faint embarrassment around Samhain and Portshore, who don’t move to comfort or tease her.

Samhain is acceptable for his age. Clumsy, definitely. Bruised afterwards, just a little. But he holds his head high at his rather low time, nods, and returns to the other three from 12, where his shoulders slump in disappointment and exhaustion, then. Like he is trusting them to protect him if someone pounces. No — not someone. Her.

He expects — without even understanding it himself — that Adrian will defend him if some threat approaches him in his tired state. She is the protector. It’s an odd feeling.

She is the last of the entire selection of Tributes.

“Valencia, Adrian! District 12! You’re up!” The Trainer yells.

Adrian steps forward.

The course is simple. The Trainer takes her down a flight of stairs, from the glass viewing area, and into hissing doors; he is stoic and sure in his steps, which are thunderous compared to her own, light patter of feet. The course will take her across floating footholds on water, then a rounded beam — to test balance — and then edges along a wall while hatches open and close in timed patterns, threatening to blow her into the water. After that is much climbing, nets strewn across the air, while the walls shoot foam balls at the Tribute randomly. Then the water, again, shallow and meant to be run in, with obstacles in the way of the finishing platform.

The best time would be seven minutes, or close to it. District 1, 2, and 4 have gotten the closest, their 12-year-olds perhaps at 8-9 minutes due to their less developed bodies. The truly horribly-out-of-shape girl from District 3, who is only marginally worse than the weeping Combe, had a time of nearly fifteen minutes. Adrian believes that, at her best, she could pull 9 minutes.

She has to be better, though, for what she wants.

(Fight for every last breath. To fight is to live.)

It’s daunting, she won’t deny that. Standing on the starting platform, looking at the obstacle course before her, it’s obvious now, more than ever, how small and fragile she is compared to the others. A sliver of apprehension claws its way into her mind, flooding her with doubt. Fear.

Fear is dangerous, Adrian Valencia knows this. The Matron hit harder, smiled wider, when she knew you were afraid. The gangs in the alleyways of the Seam, the thieving outfits and extortionists and blackmarket organ harvesters, they chase the ones who are obviously afraid. The Tributes, the Careers, they like to target fear, because people like to see fear be realized or overcome — whatever the case, the audience wants it _gone._

It’s easy to fear in these Games. That’s what they’re designed for. To take hostages of the Districts, remind them how thin their children’s necks are, and how the Capitol is a very thick, powerful noose.

She crushes that sliver of doubt, that fear. Fear has never helped her. The Games like to break people with fear, of death and of themselves and of everyone around them. Adrian was broken long ago, and a whisper and a warm memory scraped her back together again.

“Begin!” Shouts the Trainer.

Adrian Valencia darts off, unafraid. 

 

**…**

 

“Nine minutes, forty-two seconds. Not bad, brat,” says Haymitch Abernathy, that night, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and only a quarter-full. “And what’s this I hear about the Careers approaching you?”

She was going to read. Abernathy likes to interrupt her when she tries, which she is mildly annoyed by. “I already reported to Katniss.” She says, instead of hissing at him or ignoring him, as she’s already done.

“C’moooon, kid, I’m bored, here! The fucking brat doesn’t talk to me, no surprise there.”

Uncreatively, she is ‘brat’, Samhain is ‘little brat’, Combe is ‘whiny brat’, and Portshore…

Portshore. She knew he was stupid, but this is ridiculous. ‘Fucking brat’ indeed. Adrian sighs. “They are… open to negotiation, due to the Trainer’s course. But the stealth course was not open today, due to a Tribute from 3 seemingly destroying half of the programing, and I was not able to use it.”

“Tch. The voted-in girl, wasn’t it?”

“I have never met anyone more incompetent.” Adrian says flatly.

Abernathy laughs at that. “If Portshore didn’t have a silver spoon shoved up his ass, he’d give her a run for her money, that’s for sure. A bit smarter, since he knows he’s a fucker, and has too much pride to do things he’s bad at.”

“Inferiority to younger children would leave anyone in a bad mood.”

“Defending the fucking brat?”

Adrian narrows her eyes. “I would rather not.”

Abernathy snorts into his drink. “Same here, the ungrateful little shit. You got a plan, girlie?”

She nods. “Stealth tomorrow. Learning the Careers. Survival training encompassed most of my time today. I believe I’m relatively prepared, though I noticed a distinct lack of stations on poisonous plants and wildlife foraging.”

At that, the drunk man sits up straighter. His words are slurred, but his eyes are bright and sharp. “Nothing on forest-foraging? Hunting? Snaring, trapping, fishing?”

“Little. It was combined into one station, when you said there would be several.”

He sits back, frowning. “What was the focus?”

She tilts her head. “Combat. Agility and speed.”

Abernathy strokes his thin, stringy beard. “Hm. Sounds like the area’ll be urban, this year.”

Adrian recalls those arenas. They were used much more liberally in the first few Games, though not so much now. It interests the audience of the Games when the environment is more natural, because death through nature is always interesting; the muttations seem to count as such. The arena of the 14th Hunger Games had been the ruins of a city, however. The Victor claimed so by beating his opposition to death with a brick, even with his leg nearly torn off from landing wrong on a rebar.

Urban-esque Games are much more gory, but also easier for Tributes to navigate because of their familiarity with cities. It’s boring. But fill a ruin with fifty children, half of whom are 12-years-old and desperate, the other half older and wiser and angry at the world…

Adrian Valencia is not the type of sick human who revels in the suffering of others for little reason but sadism, but she can see the appeal.

“Would it be prudent of me to reveal this to the Careers?” She asks.

“A sign of goodwill goes a long way, this early in the Games.”

The Games haven’t started yet, is what immediately comes to mind. But Adrian Valencia says nothing, turning back to her reading. The thought is immediately discarded. The Games began the moment the names were called from those glass orbs, paper in silk-gloved hands. They were set into motion when she stepped forward, obsessed with death and dreams of blood and ambrosia in her head.

She knows, too, by the way Peeta Mellark sighs when he thinks no one is looking, the way Katniss grows tenser with every hour passing, the way Haymitch Abernathy begins to keep a more careful eye on her and Samhain rather than the older two, that the Games are practically half over in their eyes. The bets are probably all but finalized in the minds of the wealthy Capitolites.

Her eyes slide to Katniss, who is sitting in the corner, something small and glinting in her hands. Golden. Adrian Valencia does not know what it is, but Katniss holds and examines it like she’s praying.

How many people bet on the Girl on Fire? Adrian wonders.

How many people will bet on the one who’s smoke?

“Haymitch Abernathy.” She calls.

The drunk raises bloodshot eyes to her. “Just Haymitch, brat.”

“Haymitch,” she corrects, “Would you recommend downplaying skills during the ending assessments or not?”

The assessments of the Game Makers. The ones that are scored and announced publicly. 

Haymitch blinks, and starts sipping at his glass. It smells like nail polish, sweet and painful, strong enough that even as she’s moved to the other side of the coffee table, it’s just as pungent as when she’d been next to him.

“Depends.” Answers the man after swirling his drink thoughtfully.

She catches on immediately. “On the Careers?”

Haymitch nods. “That’s the tough thing, girlie. Makin’ alliances beforehand means you better consult them about this shit, especially if they don’t trust you already. No one trusts 12’s, and no one trusts sneaks. You’re bogged down.”

“I will not survive without a larger group to watch over me.” She says softly.

“Pshhh, obviously. The only reason you’re still kickin’ is because you know the way the Seam works. Good thing, too. You learn quick, which’ll endear you to those glossy fucks.” Haymitch often mumbles and mutters his words. As he does now. “You learn shit today?”

There is an odd heaviness-lightness in her chest. She remembers a blurry scene, sun streaming golden afternoon light, smoke columns covering the mountain ranges. Bodies are pushing all around her. A red backpack clips her arm, she stumbles, watches silently. The boy rushes forward, tiny hand slipping into a larger one — calloused and smeared with coal dust — and wide, identical grins are turned on each other.

_Did you learn a lot today?_ the older man asks.

“Yes,” replies Adrian, closing her eyes and letting the fuzzy memory fade into nothing.

_Good job, bud!_

“Good girl.” Says Haymitch Abernathy, downing the rest of his liquor.

There should be some sort of keening disappointment at that, Adrian thinks. But she can feel the corner of her mouth rebelling, trying to lift itself up, and forcefully looks down at her book.

Then she frowns.

_How dangerous,_ she thinks, _how strange and dangerous._

Adrian Valencia reads without taking in information, waiting for tomorrow. Sometimes, she forgets that she is going to die, likely violently, with lots and lots of blood on her hands. Which is odd, because that was all she was looking forward to, sitting on the train with the community house behind her. Katniss and Haymitch and Samhain, they make her forget.

The Careers will not, she reminds herself.

“I am going to explore the building.” She announces, closing her book softly and standing. Haymitch is near-comatose with alcohol, but he grunts an affirmative, and Adrian leaves.

Her normal tricks of the (stealth) trade might be somewhat clumsy, in this new and healthy body. She must practice, because the Careers will be watching tomorrow, and she must show them why they best have her on their side. She must put away fuzzy, golden memories and overlapping voices, thinking about blood and ambrosia and smearing, gritty green on waxy skin blooming with purples and blues.

 

**…**

 

She learned how to walk silently years ago. Adrian finds it irritating, really, when she does not walk without sound. She also has a tendency to stick to the sidelines, to the shadowy corners, to the places where people aren’t looking; it’s easier, it’s safer, and it’s less of a waste of energy.

The sentinels are blocky holograms; there’s a similar simulation for combat, across the training room, but Adrian knows to stay away from that. For now, she pads around on bare feet — it was laughable, the other Tributes’ expressions, when they watched her prepare for her best station, questioning why she wouldn’t like to wear the provided uniform’s matching boots — and breathes evenly. She doesn’t know how tuned the sentinel’s hearing is — there are different settings, and she is on difficulty 89% — but it’s often the nervous, little mistakes that have angry Seam bearing down on you.

Her eyes are sharp. She knows to avoid the squares that are just a sixteenth of an inch higher than the rest of the floor, ones that are barely lower, ones that are different. She sees the glint of wire across shadowy corridors, the outcropping that will hide her, the holes in the walls that she can use to climb up and out of sight.

Her ears are sharper. The holographic sentinels cannot make footfalls, but there is a simulation of breathing and footsteps. Once, hidden between two outcroppings that are supposed to be open crates, she can even hear a _thud-thud-thud_ of a computerized heartbeat, when the sentinel leans next to her and only an inch of material separates them.

The course, the full course, will take an average Career about twenty minutes. Even then, they will be suspected — the sentinels start to glow orange when they suspect strongly, yellow when they are not sure, and red when they see you — at least four times. Adrian goes through with white holographs in ten minutes and forty-seven seconds, and returns to the brightly-lit training room to wide eyes and open mouths.

“A record,” says a spare Trainer, an eyebrow raised, as Adrian listens to her time, “0% detection and a record time. They’ll never see you coming, Twelve.”

She nods to the Trainer, as praise is rare and dangerous, but her dark eyes twitch to the crowd. 

Careers — twelve of them — and some other Tributes who proved their worth the day earlier, they watch her with faint smirks and cold eyes. She sees the boy, the 12, from District 1, the one with platinum hair and black eyes that are almost as dead as her own, and he dips his chin.

She’s in.

Adrian walks to them, strides up silently, and the presumed leader — an eighteen-year-old from 2 — steps up to meet her.

“Welcome to the pack, little girl,” he says, blue eyes glimmering with calculation — _How can I use this new tool? How can she help me win?_ — and smile too wide, “As long as you don’t pull a Peeta Mellark, you’re one of us.”

Adrian’s expression cools. “Peeta Mellark ran blindly away, only to be saved by the idiocy of Seneca Crane.”

Because, of course, there would only be one Victor, were the Game Makers last year not so stupid — two Victors, provided they were from the same District, honestly. It was a joke.

(Adrian Valencia doesn’t care much for the soft baker, the one who coddles the spiteful Juniper Combe and appeases the ego of Livius Portshore. Adrian Valencia simply doesn’t understand Peeta Mellark, doesn’t understand why the steel that shone when he protected Katniss last year doesn’t apply to anything else.)

“Peeta Mellark is a Victor.” says one of the girls from Four, all siren-like beauty and viciousness.

“That changes nothing. I don’t wish to emulate Mellark in any way.”

The boy she is most familiar with, the 1, widens his eyes a little; it’s a gesture copied by most of the Career pack. “You don’t want to win?”

She lets a little smile cross her lips, the one that makes others usually back away. Not out of fear, but out of uneasiness. Little girls, apparently, don’t make the expressions that Adrian Valencia does.

“The voted-in girl from Three is going to attempt this station again,” Adrian says, watching as their eyes flicker to that dark-haired waif, some of the younger ones wincing — remembering the idiotic spectacle the girl made of herself yesterday, no doubt — “Shouldn’t we move on?”

“What stations have you done, besides this?” asks the leader.

“Basic scavenging and wilderness survival.”

“Likely an urban arena,” suggests a girl from 4, tall and bronze-skinned and wide-hipped.

“Weapons, 12?”

“Nails and teeth.” Adrian replies, “A shiv, when I can get one.”

One of the younger 4’s smiles, sharklike. “I think we’ll be good friends, 12.”

The leader, the 2, nods approvingly at everyone’s sedate, confident conversation. He gathers them in his wake, passing the other Tributes without taking his eyes off his own; they’re a formation, an ‘in-crowd’, deadly and mismatched and the biggest threat in the room. Adrian, despite her knowing better, feels a measure of relaxed relief settle over her shoulders. The Games are all tests and challenges, but this one — which she has passed — marks a few hours or rest, a few hours’ chance to fade into the background like she prefers.

Following is so easy, after all, and she follows the Career pack now.

When she glances up, by chance, Samhain meets her eyes. He turns away immediately, but Adrian knows she had seen a glimmer of disappointment. (There is no reason for Samhain to be disappointed, really. They both knew this was what was to be.) It unsettles her, slightly, but she walks away.

(She is not here to make friends.)

( _I want to kill,_ said the little girl obsessed with death.)

 

**…**

 

It’s an auspicious number, thirteen. 

(Some of the superstitious believe that is why District 13 was destroyed already. Adrian doesn’t quite care about such things, since the destruction of District 13 doesn’t decide whether she eats or not.)

Samhain wasn’t wrong, when he said that it would be the voted-in against the twelve-year-olds. It’s smart, to kill the weaker, less prepared Tributes. But this is isn’t what happens in the Career pack. The point of hunting down the twelve-year-olds — or anyone, for that matter — is to prey on Tributes less experienced than oneself. But the twelve-year-olds of the Career Districts aren’t less experienced than the average Tribute. They’re vicious, driven, and have been looking forward to the Reaping since the moment they were indoctrinated in the old Career Honor Codes.

(“Glory to your District. The Games are Glory. Win for your District. Glory is Triumph.”)

(And such things.)

So, yes. Four from 1, four from 2, four from 4, and one from 12. Thirteen Tributes for the Careers, sharp-eyed and hungry for blood.

The leader — Verus Greyer — is an eighteen-year-old from District 2. He’s built like a Greek statue, hard muscles corded underneath golden skin, observant eyes, a steady voice that is heavy with command. He’s quiet and solemn and calculating; Adrian is rather leery of the prospect of fighting him later, since she’s sure he’ll be watching her, teaching himself how to counter her stealth so she can’t slit his throat.

His counterpart is a whiny, rather boastful little thing, Amamia Heathrow. The twelve-year-olds — Briony Slatekin and Arion Ballard — are quiet, withdrawn, dark-haired and pale-skinned and pretty, nervous but projecting confidence. Adrian writes them off as non-threats, the way they seem to be trying to fill in for shoes much too big for them. Amamia Heathrow mothers them, and they depend on her, which can be exploited easily.

The District 1 Tributes are easier to write off as well. Jasper Sarvus is built for strength, pure aggression rolling off his thick shoulders. He reminds Adrian of a minotaur, bull-like face and sleek body, rather stupid, but extremely dangerous. A follower. His counterpart is Sapphira Cognac, just barely eighteen, tall and model-like and stone-faced; but not out of intelligence or wariness, but from overconfidence in her own skills. Their twelve-year-olds are Carnelian Aquius and, a bully and coward from what Adrian notices, and Georgette Halycon, a reedy thing with a specialty in long-range, but no stealth whatsoever.

District 4 is much more dangerous. The twelve-year-old girl who commented on Adrian’s preference for shivs is wiry and lanky, honey-skinned and eyed, sharp teeth set into a dangerous face; she’s on the verge of puberty, this Lucerne Carroway. Her partner, Caspian Adarian, was small — looked almost ten, really — but one of the strongest swimmers, the best stealther after Adrian. Their older Tributes are Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald, dark tan and built like runners, experts at trident-combat and knife-work, and one of the best pair-trained for years (due to the scarcity of finding Tributes who trust each other enough to work together).

It’s an… eclectic group. But at the same time, it’s not at all.

Every single one of them is combat-oriented, as is the case with Careers, but it seems they have some subtle differences. The last Games must have made the Career Districts nervous, if they have changed the training of so many. 

Verus Greyer is not as strong as some of his fellows must have been, but he is sharper and finds ease in taking a leadership role, dividing subordinates and using them as needed. Amamia Heathrow is nurturing and protective, outside of her own self-interest and confidence. Georgette Halycon has intermediate training in foraging, and uses projectile weapons. Caspian Adarian is an amateur scout. Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald are a _combination pair_.

They are trying to make better versions of the Girl-on-Fire and her star-crossed lover.

Adrian doesn’t know whether to be amused or irritated with the pack she chose.

“Is it so surprising?” Haymitch asks, later, after he has laughed — long and hard — about how a 12 has become a true member of a Career pack, “People love Katniss and Peeta. That’s why they survived, in the end. The Districts are trying to find out _why.”_

“Accidental public ascension isn’t a formula.” Adrian replies, brow raised.

“Fuckin’ kid and your big words. Yeah, the Districts know they can’t just make Katniss copies left and right. But they want to know what it was about Katniss and Peeta that got _two Tributes_ out. That got them _Victory._ Was it the cooperation aspect? If it was-”

Her eyes narrow. “Mira Waterford and Titus Sewald will win.”

Haymitch nods. “Was it the weapons used? Then-”

“Georgette Halycon or Jasper Sarvus.”

“The way Katniss nursed Peeta back to health, the way she sacrificed herself for a kid?”

“Amamia Heathrow.”

“You’re getting it. This Games is a damn test to see what’s ‘in’.” Haymitch snorts in disgust, “Every single Career was chosen for a reason. And I’m betting you _anything_ that they were told to let in a Tribute from 12. Why?”

“Because if it happens that the District is ‘in’, then they will know this, too.” Adrian replies, “They just chose the most competent 12 they could. That I specialize in stealth was simply a bonus.”

“There you go.”

He takes a shot, and Adrian wrinkles her nose. He is half drenched in missed shots of vodka and tequila.

(It has become something of a… ritual, she supposes. Go about her day. Report to Katniss, who will think on it for a few hours. Those hours, she reports to Haymitch, who has given up on the arrogant, bad-tempered Portshore. She sits with him for a while, speaks of surviving and killing and politics. He is drunk and she is pretending to try to read.)

(Yesterday, she would eat with Samhain. Silently, but companionably. After the look of betrayal he gave her, for no reason at all, she doesn’t think this will happen tonight.)

“One last bit of advice, kid.”

She is about to leave for dinner, listening to Peeta Mellark’s small talk and Effie Trinket’s tittering away. Katniss will likely let her seek refuge at her side. Adrian did not mean to alienate herself from her fellows, but it — as always — has simply, naturally happened. Haymitch will, of course, be late to dinner.

(He must set a precedence of intoxication before he shows himself in semi-public, Adrian thinks.)

“Don’t get attached. To any of them.”

Adrian nods. “I know.”

Haymitch grimaces. “You’ve watched the past Games. You know how the pack works.”

She does. They run together, hunt everyone else down as best they can, and then tear each other to pieces once there’s nothing left. Sometimes before, if there is a traitor — which is rare — or the pack is incompatible, threatening betrayal more than offering mutually-assured protection.

“All it takes is a knife in the night.” Adrian says blandly.

“Just make sure you time it right. The way you are, you have to be the first to strike out, or you have to slip away and kill them on your own time. Both have their drawbacks. It’s easier to do the first, but you risk more. It’s harder to do the second, but you’ll be safer. Make sure you know what you wanna do.”

She blinks slowly, signaling her understanding, then nods. “I will be sure.”

Haymitch makes a grunt of irritation. “Last day of training, then the interviews. You ready?”

“Am I ever not?”

“Fuck if I know, kid. You’re a damn closed book. And even when I get a ‘lil read on you, it’s jumbled as shit.”

That is good. It keeps her safe. Keeps her less predictable.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Haymitch Abernathy.”

“Go on, brat. Go stab the fucking brat for me if you can. And the whiny brat, too.”

She huffs. “That’s what the Games are for.”

Haymitch Abernathy laughs, wheezing and rough, and Adrian resists the urge to sigh. Such an odd person, she's come to like. (Such an odd life, she's come to like.)

(It'd probably be over within a few weeks. She thinks she'll actually miss this nightly ritual.)


End file.
